


Happily Ever Before

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Edward Little's Nipple Piercings, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Give Edward Little a Dog, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Edward Little, Oh My God They Were Switches, Romance, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Trans Male Thomas Jopson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 38,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26747380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: When Edward agreed to help Tom organize a Fitzier wedding, he didn’t expect that he’d end up pretending to be Tom’s fiance. Or that he'd want to marry him for real.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 81
Kudos: 59
Collections: The Joplittle Fall Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bastaerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/gifts).



> Please refer to the end notes for **content warnings** and the prompt!

**To** : Edward Little (theterrorpodcast@terror.co.uk)

 **From** : Thomas Jopson (thomas.jopson@gmail.com)

 **Subject** : Personal | Medium priority | Mr. Crozier’s wedding

Hey Edward,

sorry for the email haha! :D There’s no deadline on this one, at least (I got your thumbs up for the Great Social Evil episode, thank you) aaand I’ll try to be brief! Please have a cuppa while reading. This email is best enjoyed with some chai, I think?

Long story short: I’ve been harrassing Mr. Crozier about his wedding. I tried to be polite, but I’m seriously getting worried. I Saved the Date eight (8!) months ago. However, from what I can tell, no progress has been made in terms of preparation? They agreed on a budget, a theme (Victorian, ofc), Mx. Fitzjames found a venue (I think I told you, the St Albans Museum—yes, a museum), I _suppose_ they have a caterer and maybe a photographer, but...that appears to be it? As they have only four months to go, you can imagine my agitation.

So I tactfully approached Mr. Crozier as soon as he entered the studio today and I offered my help in no uncertain terms. He said that they wanted the event to be low-key and focused on their relationship. Now, I don’t know how a wedding at St Albans with 150 guests counts as _low-key_. I reached out to Mx. Fitzjames too, via phone, who, as usual, follows the whims of spontaneity. When I reminded him that they needed to send out the invites ASAP, he told me he “won’t forget to post the event on Instagram” (!!!). Apparently, he imagines his wedding as a big surprise party :| Whoever turns up will be there, etc. I may have used the term “logistical nightmare” in my feedback.

Thankfully, they both accepted my help. (They seemed to be relieved.)

This is where you come in…

I know that you have a lot on your plate, but I just wanna make sure that Crozier & Fitzjames have the wedding they deserve (=not a flaming disaster). However, I cannot do it alone (it’s a lot of work!) and you know them very well? So...please kindly consider helping me organise the wedding of the (19th) century?

There’s free cake.

Best,

Tom

p.s. Duties include choosing said cake, addressing envelopes, making sure they don’t forget to have a stag party or go on a honeymoon, etc.

*

 **To** : Thomas Jopson (thomas.jopson@gmail.com)

 **From** : Edward Little (theterrorpodcast@terror.co.uk)

 **Subject** : Re: Personal | Medium priority | Mr. Crozier’s wedding

dear tom,

ok

edward

ps sorry for the belated reply

*

Edward only says yes because he can’t say no. Not to Tom Jopson, anyway. He came to work for Francis after Edward, well. He didn’t leave, per se. He’s on a bit of a sabbatical. He’s been on a bit of a sabbatical for eighteen months.

It’s fine.

He’s still directing. Just remotely. They record with Francis, then Tom sends him the edited files, he gives feedback on them, and that’s that.

He hasn’t really looked at emails from Radio Four, which he considers his dayjob. The paychecks stopped coming at one point. He didn’t really notice. He has savings. Francis still pays him, and the Patreon is going great.

He has no reason to leave the house. Go to a studio. Look at a screen.

(He still takes Pony for walkies. Three to five times a day. He’s doing okay.)

It’s not like he let go of himself. His home is not a mess. It’s as pristine as ever. He never liked clutter. He still dresses well. So, it’s leisurewear. So what. It’s good quality. He eats well. Mostly out of boredom. He gained a bit of a belly. That’s okay. Dadbods are in.

He’s grown muttonchops. But they’re not that different from a beard. And it’s fitting, anyway, for someone working on a podcast about the hidden terrors of the Victorian age. Muttonchops are one of those terrors.

He wonders what Tom looks like, sometimes. Considering that he’s his only human contact. And Francis. And James. And his family. John, Georgie. Sol and the mates. But Tom’s the one who keeps checking in. Who like. Talks to him.

It hasn’t been necessary to meet him. He sends good emails. Good emails are rare, but Tom sends them. He has a profile picture attached. It shows him at a pixelated distance. All Edward can tell is that he’s white, male, average height and weight, and knows how to dress for skiing. Helmet included.

Edward used to think that he was like, fifty. There’s just something old-timey about him. Prim. Jolly. But he had some voice memos, and, well. Tom doesn’t _sound_ fifty. He has a nice voice. Calm. And he’s made some references that make Edward believe he’s a 90s kid. The shows he calls his childhood are things that Edward watched as a teen. _Courage, the Cowardly Dog_ is iconic. He still has the plushie his mum made him, safely tucked away, like most memories.

Tom is a bit of a mystery. Edward has no idea where he gets his energy. He has the sort of zealous dedication that annoys Edward in most people, but Tom makes it look oddly charming. He’s...charming. Cute, even.

Of course, having a tiny crush on someone you’ve never seen is a bit weird. Or is it? The internet is a thing.

Tom cares for him.

He’s sweet.

He's very gay.

Hopefully, he’s not Edward’s type. He really doesn’t need that sort of problem.

*

He’s early to the first wedding thing, which is supposed to be cake tasting. Pony and him are waiting outside the patisserie. It’s in a Limehouse neighbourhood with playgrounds and newly built brown brick houses, which puts Edward on edge. It looks...suburban. Not like he’s judging. He just doesn’t really leave his own flat unless absolutely necessary. It’s weird to see so much...sky. He’s squinting at the sun, not quite sure what its business is shining so brightly in September. He still has sparkles in his eyes when he finally looks away, and sees a man approaching through the playground.

He does a double take.

Then he’s staring.

Fucking hell, the bloke’s beautiful. The shirt plus waistcoat combo is a lovely choice. His hair is a glossy black, carefully coiffed, and his eyes are striking even at a distance. His face is sharp, but he has dimples when he smiles, and the hand he raises to wave has temptingly thick fingers.

So that’s Tom Jopson.

Edward is doomed.

“Hey, I hope you haven’t waited long? So nice to meet you,” Tom says, fighting with his headset. Edward knows him well enough to reckon that he wasn’t listening to music, but some work thing, audio that needs clearing. It’s odd to look at a man (a stunning, stunning man) he’s never seen before, and be aware that he enjoys working while commuting, that he grabbed breakfast while powerwalking to his station (probably a cinnamon swirl from Asda with a Lavazza vanilla latte, his usual choices), that he woke up at five and that his alarm is an air raid siren.

Edward takes his hand.

He thinks he says hello.

Maybe he points out that Tom is still five minutes early, Edward just overthought his route and has been here for twenty minutes.

Tom keeps smiling at him, so it’s hard to think.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Tom says to Pony very seriously, and crouches down to offer his hand, fingers curled. Pony doesn’t appear to be interested. She’s lying on the ground, flat and melting.

She technically counts as a basset hound. The shelter had no idea what other breeds had been thrown into the mix. The final result is a miracle of nature. She’s massive, and has gold eyes. She looks like an actual wolf fucked a basset hound, which is a bit concerning.

“She doesn’t bite,” Edward says. “She doesn’t really...do anything.”

“Well, as long as she doesn’t jump.”

“I don’t think she knows how.”

Tom laughs like Edward said something hilarious, and adjusts his hair. It looks unbearably soft. He gets to his feet, and swings his arms, as if to get ready for an exercise. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I had breakfast,” Edward confesses in a near panic.

“Oh, me too, but I always have someplace for cake.” He pats his stomach. Now Edward is staring at his middle. Those are some fucking nice trousers. They hug his hips the way God intended. He looks like a late Victorian man ready to test the newest bicycle. Does he wear vintage 24/7 like James, or is this for the occasion? Should Edward have put in more effort? He’s in Balenciaga from head to toe, from sweatshirt to sweatpants to sneakers. It’s comfortable, but nice-looking. Maybe.

“Shall we?” Tom asks, pushes the door open. A bell rings, which makes Edward flinch, but then his eyes find Tom’s arse, and, well. He has no idea how someone goes through life with a cute bum like that without constantly fondling it.

God, he needs to get laid.

How long has it been? He deleted Grindr when texting got overwhelming, which happened...a while ago.

Anyway. He shouldn’t be too concerned with how adorable his co-worker’s arse is. They’re here on business.

A cheery man greets them at the counter. “You must be the Jopsons?”

“Thomas Jopson,” Tom says, a bit confused, and shakes his hand. 

“Congratulations,” he says. His nametag reads John, from DIGGLE’S DREAM CAKES. “The big day is in December, yeah?”

“Yes…” Tom says in a tone that implies he wants to add more.

“A tight schedule, but manageable,” John goes on, visibly excited for the challenge. “I looked through your latest email—I still think sugarpaste is our best bet to recreate a Victorian look, so we can absolutely go wild with the base; I prepared some varieties, went with a zesty-spicy direction to test. The ship topper is ready for viewing in the showroom, along with the pearls, and what else? Alcohol-free and vegan, yes?”

“Yes…” Tom says, pointing behind his shoulder at Edward, but John doesn’t notice: he leaves the counter and gestures for them to follow.

Edward starts to suspect that John thinks they’re getting married. The chance to correct him is getting further and further away. Tom looks at Edward for help, who shrugs. They tag along as John chats on, a happy ramble dripping with sugar and funfetti.

DIGGLE’S DREAM CAKES has a farmhouse-feel that Edward and Pony both appreciate. There are some nice horse paintings in the backroom. The table is neatly laid with five types of cakes, thoroughly labeled with ingredients, but John makes sure to give Tom a verbal briefing while Edward busies himself with the paintings. There’s just something incredibly relaxing about horses grazing in fields.

“Darling,” Tom says softly. Edward has no reason to suspect he’s like. Being addressed. He’s just a man with his dog looking at horses, about to taste wedding cakes with a gorgeous guy he will not marry, despite all appearances. Tom touches his hand, his fingers curling into his palm as he leans closer and says, “The cakes, dear.”

His eyes are even more stunning up close. The dark shadows just make the blue-green stand out more.

“Yeah,” Edward breathes. Follows Tom to the table blindly. He ties Pony’s leash to his chair, all but collapses. He has no appetite. Not for cakes, anyway.

“I’ll leave you to it,” John says. “Just call for me if you need anything, I’ll be at the front.”

“Thank you,” Tom says. Edward’s palm still tickles with his touch. Who was the last person who touched him this gently? He can’t recall. Too bad this isn't real. Too bad Tom is just a colleague.

He needs to keep his shit together.

When the door closes, Tom smirks at him. “How does it feel to be engaged to be married?”

Edward just stares.

Tom offers him some hand sanitizer.

By the time Edward comes up with a reply, they’re tasting the first cake (ginger spice). _Buy me a coffee first._

Except he already had three coffees and Tom is under no obligation to buy him anything.

“This is good,” Tom says around a forkful of cake, then remembers to swallow. Edward watches his throat work around the bite.

“Very wintry,” he offers.

“The maple frosting is a nice touch,” Tom nods.

“Do you think Francis would like it?” Edward asks. It’s a stupid question. Tom considers it anyway.

“I don’t really think he cares,” he says with more self-awareness than his email let on. “He doesn’t like sweets, he’ll have one slice and be done with it. Mx. Fitzjames, however…you’re right, it’s very wintry, and he’d like that it fits the theme; but I think it’s a bit heavy—I managed to get hold of their catering contact, and they’re going with Portoguese, so I don’t think the cake should be too filling?”

Edward points his fork like a ruffian. “How about the banana foster?”

Tom perks up, as if Edward just had some great idea. “How about the banana foster!” He makes a perfect cut, offers the piece to Edward on his own fork. Edward tries not to be too shocked. Cannot resist looking Tom in the eyes as he takes it into his mouth, but then quickly glances away.

He should really, really stop it.

He keeps his gaze on Pony making puppy eyes at the food as he pronounces his judgement. “It’s sweet.”

“It _is_ ; but you can light this one on fire, James would be all about that.”

“Can you still light it on fire without alcohol?”

“That’s an excellent question,” Tom says like he means it. He makes a little note, God bless him. Edward can barely register the taste of the walnut or the pumpkin and maple cake, he’s so busy _not_ staring at him.

He even smells nice. Really nice. Edward cannot detect a cologne, it’s just soap, some laundry detergent which is possibly called “morning dew,” and a hint of aftershave.

“Oh, this one’s beautiful,” Tom cooes, scooping up a lemon-thyme cake, sprinkled with poppyseeds. Edward opens his mouth obediently, lets Tom feed him.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had this. He never really did cutesy couple things. He knows he’s a bit of a romantic at heart, but he tends to suppress that side. The men he fucks want him rough. The men he dates want a debate partner. Someone posh and intellectual. Edward works for the BBC after all. Used to. Has the right kind of accent.

Tom is delightfully Cockney. It sounds like it’s been educated out of him, but when he’s excited, it gets very, very evident. It’s kinda hot, to be honest.

Edward makes a subtle attempt to adjust his cock just as Tom moans.

“Oh, this is a dream,” he sighs contentedly.

Edward takes a second serving of cake to appreciate it, his ears burning. Tom is enjoying the taste with his eyes closed. There’s some cream smeared over his lips.

Edward swallows thickly. “You have…” he says. Gestures at Tom. He gets a napkin, rubs at the wrong side. “No, left,” Edward says. Tom manages to smear it on his cheek. Edward cleans the cream with his thumb. Tom watches him lick it off.

 _Are_ they married?

(No. They’re just tasting cakes. This is normal.)

“Is it nice?” Tom asks. He sounds a bit rough.

“Very nice,” Edward says. He wants to share the taste from Tom’s lips. He has really nice lips. Kissable.

Edward should buy him a coffee first.

He knows he won’t.

He won’t, because he can’t. Tom turned to him in a time of need. It’d be bloody selfish to make this about him and where he wants to put his dick. Maybe after the wedding. If it goes well.

*

The wedding will be a catastrophe. It becomes evident at the florist. Edward tries his best not to suffocate, but MRS. FRANKLIN’S VALLEY OF ROSES is like a perfumed parlour overgrown with all shades of fuschia and pink. Pony wasn’t allowed to come in, so Edward has some base-level stress about leaving her outside, even though she’s had no symptoms of separation anxiety since the first month of adoption.

(That’s the thing. She’d be laughably easy to kidnap.)

“I’m sorry, dear, but I don’t think that’s possible,” Mrs. Franklin tells Tom, whose upper lip had gone quite stiff the moment they entered this kitchy jungle. “The deadline is frighteningly tight, and I couldn’t even use leftovers. Nothing pretty blooms in December.”

“My client doesn’t insist on flowers,” Tom says. “I was thinking evergreens, to make use of the Christmas season, with white ribbons.”

Mrs. Franklin makes a face of distaste. “That’d be garish,” she says.

Edward wants to take Tom’s hand and lead him out. The thing is, he’s quite stubborn.

“Merely a suggestion; but if you think you might have enough evergreens in stock—”

“My dear,” Mrs. Franklin interrupts. “If it’s a gay wedding, it should be gladiolus or nothing.”

“Gladioli don’t bloom in December,” Tom says.

“Exactly my point. Your client should’ve thought of that.”

“I’m aware that our schedule is far from satisfactory; if you have any suggestions how to possibly work with it, I’d like to—”

“Don’t have a wedding in December,” Mrs. Franklin says with condescending sweetness. “If the date holds some special significance, contract a florist a year in advance. As a wedding organiser, I think you should be aware of that, dear.”

“Let’s go,” Edward grumbles before Tom can reply. He gets hold of his arm. He’s not gripping tight. “Thank you for your time,” he tells Mrs. Franklin.

Mrs. Fucking Franklin had been made aware of the date over the phone. Edward was present when Tom made the call. They leave the shop very pointedly, coming up for air on a busy Chelsea street awash with autumn leaves.

“I’m so angry,” Tom says, perfectly measured. “She could’ve just refused without all the—” He frowns, and shakes his head. Adjusts his hair.

“Wonder what her fucking issue is,” Edward says as he gets Pony’s leash. She has fallen asleep on the pavement, happily drooling.

“I think she clocked me,” Tom mutters, as he gets his phone out. He deletes her contact with gusto. Edward looks him over—he has a maroon sweater with a striped shirt, dark trousers. They’re mismatched again; Edward attempted to dress up, which meant a pair of Levi’s and a Ralph Lauren shirt with a bomber jacket. He hasn’t had jeans on in over a year, so they feel like white tie.

“You’re not clockable,” he says, then adds, “and fuck people who clock.”

“It’s my babyface.” Tom performs some silly voguing, drawing a frame in the air. “The face of a baby who could use a shave.”

Edward scoffs, fond. Tom has a very deadpan humour. Like he expects nobody will laugh.

Neither of them move to walk. They linger by a bicycle richly decorated with flowers. Maybe they should steal it. It has enough roses for a wedding.

“Gosh,” Tom sighs, exasperated, and runs his hand through his hair. He peers at Edward with his dark locks swept back. Edward’s heart hammers. “Do you think the evergreens would be garish?”

“No,” Edward says. “It’s all the rage.” After a beat, he adds, “I googled winter weddings.”

“Oh, you did?” Tom beams. He lets go of his hair; the strands fall back into his face, shining-soft like silk. What the hell does he even do with his hair to make it look this luxurious? Possibly one of James’ vintage hair care tutorials, right? (Edward hasn’t even been able to go get a haircut in...some months.) “Thank you so much for your help,” Tom says. “I’m sorry that today’s been a waste of time.”

“What about that place?” Edward asks, pointing at a random flower shop up the street. (Is it selfish that he’s not ready to say goodbye just yet?)

“Oh,” Tom says. “I—don’t think we can just walk in? We should call ahead, and—”

“I don’t think they’d mind,” Edward says. “It’s tiny. Not a lot of traffic.”

Tom hums, unconvinced, but starts heading to the place, cautious, like a cat discovering new territory. Edward smiles to himself, follows, Pony in tow.

Maybe he should ask Tom for coffee after all. But Tom said he had work to do. Well. It’d been heavily implied. And Edward is not finished with _The Grievous Nuisances of Slaughter-Houses_ episode yet. For a guy about to marry the person of his dreams, Francis is recording a lot of morbid shit.

(Not like Edward is complaining. He’d have hated if Francis had changed after dating James. Maybe he’s a bit less bitter. Or combative. And yeah, he went cold turkey on the booze, thanks to Tom, which was a bloody relief because Edward was really, really, really tired of saving face for him. Which possibly has...something to do with his present burnout.)

“I think I’ll drop the wedding organizer act,” Tom muses as they take the stairs.

“You _are_ organizing it.”

“Yes, but for my boss, who doesn’t really give a heck, so he won’t want to be involved, and—I always feel like it’s convoluted to explain?”

In the end, they don’t have to explain. The man (Henry) welcoming them at BOOKS AND BLOOMS takes one look at them after Tom says they’re looking for wedding flowers in December, and says warmly, “I’m so happy for you. Could you walk me through your budget, venue and colour scheme, please?”

Edward tries to look respectable enough to make a fine fiance for Tom, who appears to be a bit flushed. No wonder: there’s an open fireplace. BOOKS AND BLOOMS is a cozy corner somewhere between a library and a shelter for succulents.

“Teddy and I managed to book St Albans Museum in Hertfordshire,” Tom says, and Edward doesn’t hear the rest. Tom has given him a nickname. And the way he says it is amazing. Edward wants to hear it again. Preferably moaned.

He squats down to pet Pony and stop thirsting. Pony is fascinated by Henry’s hiking boots, who gives her a good pet while Tom and him chat about budget.

“No, I think evergreens would add a rustic charm,” Henry says. “It’s smart, too—makes delivery less sensitive. We could add some eucalyptus and fairy lights, it’d look magical and smell _incredible_.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that,” Tom says. “What do you think, Teddy?”

Edward thinks that if Tom keeps saying his name so gently, he’ll end up marrying him for real.

“Yeah?”

“It sounds dreamy, but do you think the fairylights go with the Victorian theme?”

“I mean. We’re using electricity anyway.”

“That’s a fair point,” Tom says, relieved.

“It could be candles,” Henry proposes.

“That’s a bit too festive, I think?”

“Flammable, too,” Edward adds from the floor. Tom pets his head. Just a light touch on his scruff, but the warmth of it rushes through Edward’s body, makes a stop at his nipples and dick.

“Very flammable,” Tom says, _indulgent_. “Mustn’t let Mx. Fitzjames close to fire.”

“Fuck, forbid.”

Henry's head shoots up. “Sorry for prying—will Mx. Fitzjames be in attendance? The historian?”

Edward tries not to make a facial expression. Francis would be livid that anybody would label his soon-to-be-husband like that. It visibly pains Tom to let it slide, and he settles on, “The fashion historian, yes.”

James has no formal training. (Unlike Francis, who has a PhD, or even Tom, who got a BA under his tutelage). What James has is a YouTube channel, the Daily Dandy, where he mainly shows off his outfits of the day or his most recent vintage voyage. He does episodes on history, which mostly consist of condescending reactions to period dramas or interesting Victorian incidents told in a vlogging style.

They used to make Francis froth at the mouth. Edward had never seen a more dedicated hatewatcher.

Then James started a podcast, _Tea Time at the Crystal Palace_. Edward sat through a one hour rant on the title alone. Francis accused James of spreading irresponsible, revisionist bullshit, of feeding into dangerous myths, glorifying the Victorian era as “this bloody golden age”, drew a direct connection to Brexit, gave a lecture on how history is just as much about the past as it is about present and future, and how it’s not a progress but a chain of random incidents deliberately organised into a grand narrative, how James should look up historiography, how he probably never even heard of the word, then proceeded to send the dictionary definition to him via twitter.

James got so offended that he fucked Francis about it when they ran into each other at a V&A event where they were both keynote speakers. They even had a hatesex escapade to Bath. Started dating grudgingly. Fell in love with utter distaste.

It turned out that James was a very decent person who was actually eager to learn more and use his massive platform for educating himself and others.

It also turned out that Francis was an all too quick judge of character, but he could be kind and caring when he let go of prejudice.

“Okay,” Tom says when they leave BOOKS AND BLOOMS with a business card and a swiftly placed order. “Problem.”

“Listening,” Edward says, trying to avoid getting tangled in the leash. Pony is dashing forward with a new purpose, and all Edward can do is follow.

“I really like Henry—” Tom begins.

“I think he’s married. He has a ring.”

“What? No, not like—as a contract.”

“Ah.” Edward shouldn’t feel this relieved. “That’s...a problem?”

“Yes, because as soon as he comes to Hertfordshire, he’ll realise that we’re dirty liars and it’s not our wedding.” Tom looks genuinely upset by the prospect. He shoves his hands into his pockets, which seems to be a nervous gesture; affected ease to calm himself.

“There’s an easy remedy,” Edward says, finally gaining control over his dog. “Marry me.”

Tom laughs; it shouldn’t smart. It was a joke, and a bad one at that, so what other reaction did he expect—

“Oh, I like that,” Tom says with a genuine smile. Edward blinks and looks away. “An arranged wedding! Very on-theme. They were often quite successful, I hear. We could get a little cottage and live out our days in domestic bliss.”

“We could get a horse,” Edward offers.

“A herd,” Tom counters. “Gosh, I could hang our washing in the garden. I always found that charming, lines of linen floating in the wind. And we would have vegetables, and we would take our tea on the porch.”

“With fresh honey.”

“Are we keeping bees?”

Edward shrugs. “Someone’s gotta.”

“Horses and bees and Pony,” Tom says with a dreamy sigh. He stops at a crossing.

“Thought you weren’t a pet person,” Edward says.

“I’m not, I’m much too fussy, but Pony is very well-behaved and, well, she has short hair.”

“Still sheds like shit.”

“Well, if I’m marrying you, I have to accept all members of your family. I could always ask our wedding guests to get me lint rollers. Are you headed this way?”

Edward frowns at him, then at the street light. It’s green.

“No,” he says, sobering.

“Thank you for your help again,” Tom says. “You saved the day, haha.”

“Henry did. Er. See you later?”

The light turns red. Tom lets it. “Are you working today?”

“Yeah,” Edward says, even though he doesn’t.

“I’ll send an email about the band. I think I found something genuinely Celtic.”

“Sounds great.”

“Mx. Fitzjames is taking care of his suit and dress and will forcibly take Mr. Crozier to a tailor, so that’s out of our hands. He’ll do his own hair.”

“No surprises there. Do you think Francis is allowed to touch it?”

“Maybe that’s his wedding gift,” Tom smirks, then adds quietly, “I shouldn’t gossip.”

Edward swallows a smile. Tom is a proper tattletale, and lacks any self-awareness about it.

“Catch your green,” Edward says softly. Tom’s head shoots up and he looks at the lamp like he’s forgotten it was there.

“Right,” he says. “I hope you will have an excellent day?”

“You too.”

“Bye, darling.” Tom winks at him playfully then steps on the road, hands still in his pockets and a breeze ruffling through his hair.

*

Edward wanks like it’s his new job. He wanks himself raw. He used to be quite good at masturbating, back in the day. Made it an event, he did. Jerked himself off in every room of his flat. He kept varying positions, bought a new toy almost every month. He’d perfected it into an artform.

Then he got bored.

He had no energy anymore to use any of the plugs or dildos. He reached for the same transparent stroker, put the vibration to max, and had an orgasm in under five minutes, or not at all.

Now, however.

It’s like a rediscovery. Like he’s forgotten he had a body, but Tom made him aware of it. He wakes up with a hand down his briefs, stroking himself before he’s even fully awake. He imagines that Tom is there, that he’s always there, that they live together and spend every morning like this. That his fiance loves when he’s horny, loves watching him get off, that he’d caress his back and whisper encouragements, kiss his nape, and Edward would feel his smile against his damp skin. Other times, he imagines Tom fucking him, bending him over while Edward is washing his teeth, a hand in his hair. They make love in the kitchen, Edward moving deep with a languid pace. Tom gives him head while Edward is watching telly, and he returns the favour when Tom is working on his laptop. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, stroking, kissing, naked and happy.

They’re married in all the fantasies.

He can’t quite imagine hooking up with Tom Jopson, sound editor at The Terror podcast.

Not like he never took home a colleague from a Christmas party. But that was a Radio Four occurrence. The crew at Terror is miniscule. It feels like disturbing a very fragile ecosystem. If something gets awkward, he won’t have the option to just dodge into a different corridor and hide behind the water fountain.

It’s easier to just skip ahead. Elude flirting, texting, dates, sex, dickpics, brunch, kinks, an introduction to friends, family, Christmas, New Year’s, fucking up something, fucking up again, boredom, irritation, resentment.

He won’t drag Tom into the mess of reality.

He’s safer on a pedestal.

You can’t fuck up something that never was.

*

It doesn’t stop him from wearing a jockstrap to their next non-date.

It’s a mistake.

He’s perishing the entire time.

Tom is in a light blue and white striped shirt, which reminds Edward of pyjamas. Maybe Tom would be hurt if Edward told him, because apparently he makes most of his own clothes, but it’s just. Cozy. Cute.

So Edward has this mental image of Tom in that shirt and nothing else, and himself in a jockstrap, lazing in bed.

They’re not lazing in bed.

They’re being bamboozled.

At least that’s what Edward thinks.

There’s just something very off about Cornelius, but Edward can’t quite focus because they’re in a coffee shop and Tom has rolled up his sleeves.

“I won’t do Raise Me Up and all that shite,” Cornelius says. He sits like he’s never encountered chairs before. He ordered a cold brew, cranberry juice and a muffin when Edward said he was paying. They sit on the table mostly untouched while he plays with the paper straw. “I couldn’t even be bribed.”

“We’re after genuine Celtic folk, and your band’s demo was very convincing,” Tom says. “I think we wouldn’t even necessarily want English lyrics.”

“You speak Gaelic?” Edward asks. He hasn’t bothered to check out the demo. Now he feels like he didn’t have to. (God, the hair on Tom’s arms look very soft.)

“It’s my mother tongue,” Cornelius says, pushing a knee against the table so he can balance the chair on two legs.

“Really? I thought most Irish people learn it at school.”

“Da wanted to give the wee ones a proper education.”

Tom puts a gentle hand over Edward’s arm before he can call that story to question. It works like a charm, because Edward is now busy with his sudden but not at all surprising boner. “It must feel very special,” Tom says while absent-mindedly stroking Edward’s forearm, “to have your father teach you such an important part of your heritage.”

“Nah, he’s a right cunt.” Cornelius finally reaches for his untouched coffee. “So Hertfordshire, right?”

“Yes,” Tom says, blinking at the whiplash.

“Mm. Not exactly around the corner. Transport included?”

“We can pay for the train tickets or petrol money, and offer accommodations if necessary.” 

Cornelius looks terribly amused. “I don’t think Billy would like to carry his Gibson on a train.”

“What are you proposing?”

“I think it’s easier if you Venmo us for a rental, plus petrol.”

“I have a SUV,” Edward adds. “We could carpool.”

Hickey smiles at him in a way that makes Edward feel terribly transparent. “I don’t think you should be carpooling a band on your wedding day.”

Yeah.

It’s possible that he’s fucking transparent. So much so that even Cornelius can tell. One look at him, that’s it. The engagement is so blatantly fake. It must be bloody obvious that he wants Tom, but yeah. Why would Tom want someone like him?

*

“Thank you so much for being here for me,” Tom says. They’re in Regent’s Park on a picnic blanket that matches Tom’s tweed ensemble. His eyes are green in the steely sunlight. They’re supposed to be looking at the finalized guest list. Edward can only look at him.

“Don’t mention it,” he manages. Pony’s head is in his lap. He’s so distracted he’s been petting her nose these past ten minutes, which is not even her favourite spot.

Tom frowns at his antique tablet; his gaze softens as he glances up at Edward. “I mean it, though. I couldn’t do it alone.”

“Rubbish,” Edward says gently. “You’re the most competent person I know.”

Case in point, Tom made them lunch, which has been happily consumed, and now the Tupperware is neatly packed away into Tom’s satchel. He has an umbrella, because he’s the sort of person who checks the weather even on a seemingly bright day. The guest list is in a frequently updated spreadsheet. He’s organising his boss’ _wedding_.

Tom waves it away, as if _competent_ is such high praise he couldn’t possibly accept it. Edward nudges him with his knee. Tom nudges back.

Edward stops before he initiates a sensual roll around in the grass.

“I mean,” Tom says, “that if I had to do this alone, I’d feel abandoned.”

Edward has no reply for that. He has a tendency to abandon people. Never means to, but. Yeah. It happens.

He flops on his back, looks at the sky and the willows, because it’s easier than looking at Tom.

*

Then Tom is in his flat.

It makes sense that he’s there. The invites need to be sent out asap, because James has friends all around the globe, and apparently the polite thing to do is to contact them through snailmail. Then send an email to ask if they got it. Then call them if they don’t write back.

It’s a nightmare.

Edward is glad wedding invitations he’s received have never been quite so fussy. His siblings knew better, and Francis just sent him a Facebook message. He’s still considering blocking any incoming calls and hiding his address from all records, in case he ever gets invited to a wedding again.

The ivory envelopes are on his chic stone coffee table, waiting to be addressed by hand. (By. Hand.) Oddly enough, Tom is not at them already. He’s walking around in Edward’s home with a respect and awe reserved for museums. Edward is ready to admit that the flat looks okay. He hired an interior designer to do it. It’s industrial. Lots of exposed brick walls (painted a dark blue), wood, leather, metal. Not too many personal items, save for his records, vintage radio collection and Pony’s toys. Some books, organised by colour. He didn’t want to upset the balance of the abstract art and strategically placed candles.

“Sorry for prying,” Tom says, barely restraining himself from opening drawers. He’s so adorably curious. About like, people. Not necessarily Edward. This isn’t about Edward.

“Make yourself at home,” Edward says, standing around awkwardly. The intimacy and inherent homoeroticism of Tom going around in socks doesn’t escape his attention. They’re alone, truly alone. Pony is too lazy to come out of the open kitchen, so—

Edward knows he won’t do anything.

Definitely not here.

Not at a place where Tom might feel cornered, or trapped. If he ever proposes...anything, it won’t be here.

Tom looks very much at ease as he settles on the couch, folds his legs under himself. He peers around one last time, a big, sappy smile on his face. Edward should show him the rest of the place, but then he’d have to show him his bedroom, and that feels way too personal. Considering the sheer amount of time he wanks to Tom there. Tom would take one look at the fresh towel laid out and the tissue box, and he’d know.

“Tea?” he asks, which is possibly the most British way to ease the tension, and maybe it’s transparent as heck, but Tom only asks for water. He’s absolutely thrilled when Edward gets icewater made by the fridge.

“I’ve only seen this in films!” he exclaims. Their fingers brush when Edward hands him the glass.

“Glad to report my fridge actually exists.” He sets down the pitcher and gets a glass himself, because he’s thirsty as hell.

Tom drinks in big gulps, with his eyes closed, and sighs happily when he’s finished.

Edward suffers.

It turns out that you have to lick the envelopes to get them closed, so Edward suffers some more.

For two hours.

They get hungry, so Edward orders food. He watches Tom eat chicken taquitos in his kitchen and he loves him so much he could kiss him.

He should’ve ordered raw garlic to stop himself.

He puts on music but it doesn’t help to distract from current events, which are Tom without his sweater, because he said the spices made him feel hot, sprawled on the couch as he double-checks the addresses. His feet follow the rhythm of the song, which Edward realises too late is _Let’s Spend the Night Together_ , but changing it would be suspect. The playlist goes on in similar fashion, a mix of prog-rock and classic rock’n’roll all about sex and love. _Wouldn't It Be Nice_ never made him blush before, but his face is burning by the time the tracklist shifts to _This Guy’s in Love With You_.

“Mm, I’m really feeling this,” Tom says, tapping a fountain pen to his lips, then it just _rests_ there. “Could you send me the link, please?”

“It’s uh, on my laptop. I made the playlist.” Edward realises he’s digging himself into a hole. “Not for the—occasion, I make playlists regularly, but not like. So I didn’t come up with the tracks. You know how in the sixties the BBC wouldn’t broadcast pop or rock for more than an hour, so you had to listen to pirate radios?”

“I didn’t know that,” Tom says, delighted.

Edward ruffles up his hair. It’s getting way too long. God. It’s getting _sixties_ long. “So,” he babbles, “some broadcasted from ships, like literal pirates, but then the practice was outlawed by the 1967 Marine Offences Act. I’ve been researching their tracklist to archive it and like, see what people actually listened to. Hear. Hear what people actually...yeah.”

“That’s fascinating!” Tom says, and it’s not condescending. Edward has never heard that sentence said in a tone that wasn’t. “Do you think you could put it on Spotify? I reckon people would be really interested!”

“Thank you,” Edward mutters. Frets with his hands. Notices he creased the envelope in said hands. Shit.

“Too bad it doesn’t fit the theme,” Tom chats on. “It’d be great for a wedding, good dance music.”

“Yeah,” Edward agrees vaguely. He dreads to see Francis dance, although if JC can be trusted, he has _moves_.

A smile spreads on Tom’s face that’s more like a mischievous smirk. “We could have rock’n’roll at _our_ wedding,” he says.

Edward’s brain short circuits, then he says, “I thought you liked indie.”

“I do, but I can’t see you enjoying Arctic Monkeys on our big day.”

“There are no monkeys in the arctic,” Edward mutters darkly.

Tom sings, teasing, “ _Do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways?_ ”

“It’s okay music,” Edward lies through his teeth.

“ _Suck it and see, you never know; sit next to me before I go_.”

Edward is rooted in his armchair. Turns to the envelope he ruined, too overwhelmed by how lovely Tom’s singing voice is. From the corner of his eye, he can see Tom adjust his hair with a sad little smile.

That’s the problem with indie. It brings you down.

*

He doesn’t see Tom for a while. Which is what it is. It’s not like Tom doesn’t email him. His emails are still fucking charming, and he’s as bubbly and friendly as ever.

There’s just no reason for in-person meetings right now. It’s mostly administrative crap or honeymoon logistics, the latter of which Francis and James handle on their own. And James doesn’t need help with the wedding attires or organising a party. Edward hopes there’s still stuff left to do. It was getting him out of the house, at least.

Got him to meet Tom.

He has no reason to miss him. They’re talking, almost every day. And not just about the podcast, or the wedding. Tom talks about his life and Edward googles interesting topics. The emails are great.

They’re just…

Okay, so there’s no reason to pretend they’re married in emails. And no reason to be flirty. Tom can still be a bit cheeky, but that’s probably just his style.

Still.

Edward is left wondering if he should’ve done something differently when Tom was in his home, singing along to love songs. Nothing too forward—that was a good call, but like. If he sat beside him and let their knees brush together. If he should’ve asked him to dance. Just a silly shuffle in the kitchen. If he’d gone in for a hug when they said goodbye. Maybe a peck on the cheek. That would’ve been weird. Unless Tom wanted it.

He has no clue what Tom wants.

He’s ready to admit that he’s in no rush to find out. _Could have beens_ are still better than _never_.

Then Tom sends him a high priority email asking Edward to call him.

Call when convenient, it’s stated. And it’s about the wedding. Something about the venue and the hotel.

Edward can’t really tell, because he's calling him before he’s finished reading the email. Tom sent it sixteen hours ago, so. Maybe it doesn’t stink of desperation.

Tom picks up at the second ring. “Hey,” he says. There’s noise in the background. It sounds like he’s commuting. “Sorry for the rushed email, today’s been a _day_ , I thought it’d be easier like this?”

Edward closes his eyes, cradles the phone close. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

There’s a beat, and more commute noises.

“Oh,” Tom says, then very warmly, “It’s good to hear your voice, too.”

Edward sinks down to his couch. To Tom’s spot. “Tell me about the thing.”

“Right,” Tom perks up, and God fucking damn it, why is he so fucking lovely when he’s in his element, why is he a bloody angel, why is it that Edward can’t—“So it’s a bit of a mess, unfortunately, and pretty last minute, but the gist of it is that I suggested to Mr. Crozier to check in with the venue, you know, just to make sure that everything is okay. He doesn’t think it’s necessary, because Mx. Fitzjames is a regular visitor, whatever, I told him Mx. Fitzjames doesn’t go there for _weddings_. So I called Mx. Fitzjames, and— _excuse me_ —sorry, I’m on the tube—”

The line goes mute for a moment, then Tom's voice is back. “So I called him and we got talking and he said that he thinks we don’t need to _bother_ the venue—I seriously don’t understand—but then he said he’s never been to the hotel, which nearly gave me a fright, and even he agreed that somebody should go see if it’s anything like on the pictures.” Tom stops for breath. “And he said that if I’d be kind enough to go take a look, he could pay for my room for a night, because you never know a hotel until you slept there, and I said yes, but then the dates were a juggle because I’m _swamped_ , and he already booked the room when I realised that there’s no way I can get there next Thursday before the venue closes and I _do_ want to check it out—”

“I could take you,” Edward says. There’s more noise from the other side of the line. Edward wishes he was there to see Tom’s face.

“I wanted to ask you if you could take me, actually,” Tom says softly. “That’d be great.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“And, ah. The room has two beds, so I don’t know if you’d—I’d just really like a second opinion on the place, because I _know_ I’m fussy, so I’m not sure if my feedback is actually useful, because if I see a dusty curtain I’m out of there.”

“Is it pet friendly?”

“Yup, Silna has a service dog, so we made sure.”

“Cool. Let’s go.”

“Don’t feel pressured, please, I don’t want to make you feel…” He sighs, and adds quietly, “pressured.”

“No pressure,” Edward says with a shrug that must be audible. “Here we go, Hertfordshire.”

“Thank you,” Tom says with such genuine gratitude Edward melts a little.

He wants to keep doing favours for Tom as long as he can.

Wants to be useful.

Or maybe it’s even more simple. He just wants to see him again.

*

Tom shows up in a hat.

Edward won’t survive the journey.

Nobody has any right to be so hot in a hat.

He has a bowtie too and two massive suitcases, which is impressive for a one night trip. He’s straight from work, but Edward can’t quite recall...which. He tries to keep track, but Tom’s life is a chaotic flurry of side-jobs and part-time gigs.

“What made you go into sound editing?” Edward asks as he watches him take an Advil dry.

Tom coughs while fastening his seatbelt. “Having a history degree.”

“Not many opportunities?”

“Not with a BA. Couldn’t get a scholarship for an MA. Used to be bummed about it, but apparently the board was a bunch of TERFs, so. Their loss.”

“Fuck them.” Edward checks that Pony is okay on the backseat, and starts the car.

He can feel Tom looking at him, but he should be watching the road.

“Now my former hobby is my job, and history is a hobby. I appreciate the irony.” A beat later he adds, “At least I speak Latin.”

“That’s sexy,” Edward says. After that he makes fucking sure to only watch the road and not to talk. Not in the foreseeable future.

Tom laughs in a way some guys laugh when they’re being flirty, but it doesn’t mean that this particular laughter—

“How about you?” Tom says, voice still bright.

“No Latin.”

“What made you want to direct for the radio?”

“It sort of happened to me,” Edward explains. He can tell that Tom is looking at him like he’s interested in the rest. Like he’s interested in...him?

He shouldn’t follow that train of thought. He told Tom he was sexy in the flattest way possible, and he laughed, and that’s that, no need to…

“How does it happen to somebody?” Tom asks, and Edward makes the mistake of glancing at him sideways. He really shouldn’t have noticed the five o’clock shadow, because now he won’t be able to think of anything else.

He forces some blood back into his brain from his dick.

He’s pathetic.

He’ll share a room with this man, he really, really shouldn’t—

If he fucks it up then Tom will be saddled with all the bloody wedding duties, and he might stop enjoying the only job he genuinely likes, and it could get so bloody awkward, and Edward’s entire life flashes before his eyes, a life in which he has to live with the knowledge that he hurt Tom, somehow, that something went wrong and now they don’t talk, because they’re not even friends anymore, and he can’t have that.

He can’t—

“My parents love radio; it was always on when I was a little Little,” Edward says, just to remind himself what he’s losing if he risks this friendship. “Preferred it to telly, in fact. Liked shows better than music. I love a good story. First you notice the interviewer, the stars, whatever. Then you learn that there’s a person there who puts it all together. But on the radio, the director is completely invisible.”

“Do you want to be invisible?”

Edward nods, sighs.

Five minutes in the fucking car and Tom already understands him better than anyone else ever has.

*

The venue looks okay, for all Edward cares.

Tom asks a lot of clever questions and peers under the carpets.

*

The hotel is not what he expected.

“It’s...not what I expected,” he tells Tom, who sighs as the door closes behind them.

“I know.”

On the outside, Sopwell House is a charming country house nestled in a green park.

Inside...there’s a luxury spa. Apparently. If the posters can be believed. Everything looks sleek and brand new.

“The thing is,” Tom says, “it doesn’t fit the theme, yes, but everything that _does_ costs a fortune and is _appallingly_ run down.”

Edward takes in the polished wood floor of the hall, the geometric light fixtures, the stone columns.

“This...doesn’t cost a fortune?”

Tom drops his voice. “It’s owned by Mr. Barrow, Junior. He owes Mx. Fitzjames a favour.” He looks like he’s dying to elaborate, but they’re greeted by the lively receptionist. Edward leaves the check-in to Tom, hovering with their luggage and Pony slumped on the floor.

It’s a nice fucking hotel.

It’s something he would’ve chosen himself, if he took Tom to a weekend getaway. It makes it hard to remember why they’re here, hard to remember the wedding. There’s a sauna and everything. They could have so much fun here.

“There must be a misunderstanding,” Tom says.

“Wedding suite for Fitzjames and Crozier,” the receptionist says, tone pleasant, and turns the screen to Tom. He checks the details, face draining of colour.

“Is something wrong?” Edward asks, stepping closer. (The question is futile. Of course something is wrong. Something somewhere is always wrong.)

“I think the bookings got mixed.” Tom bites the inside of his cheeks, which makes him look like a contemplative bunny. “Is there possibly a vacancy for a room with two beds?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the receptionist says, looking as lost as Tom. “I’m terribly sorry; we talked at length with Mx. Fitzjames, almost an hour, and we discussed several options for the wedding day; I must’ve mixed something up.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” Tom says with a reassuring smile, which wavers when he turns to Edward. “We could ah, have a look around, and then go back to London, I suppose?”

Edward shakes his head; he has no idea how to reassure Tom, so he clasps his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he says.

“There’s only one bed.”

“You can take it, I’m fine on the couch.”

“There’s no couch.”

“I’m fine in the armchair?”

Tom touches the hand on his shoulder. “You drove us here, you should rest.”

Edward cannot think of anything for a long moment. Tom’s hand is on his. How does he plan to survive the evening if this, already, is overwhelming?

(But Tom won’t know peace until he’s checked the sleeping conditions himself, and had a second opinion on the place. Edward must be strong, for him.)

“Let’s just take the room, we’ll figure it out,” Edward says, fully intending to tuck Tom in himself if necessary, because there’s no way he’s letting him sleep anywhere but in a bed. The poor guy is knackered. 

“We’re taking the room, thank you,” Tom announces with relief. He squeezes Edward’s hand before letting go of him.

They’re given a walk around the premises. Edward tries to focus on being useful, but even though he’s playing it cool, he’s haunted by the wedding suite. That means a king-sized bed, right? They could sleep at opposite ends. He only occupies one side in his own bed too. It’s fine.

He’s going to see Tom first thing in the morning.

That’s the bit he can’t get over, and that has been, like, included in the original deal. One bed or two makes little difference there. If Tom is within a hundred feet of him, he can’t look at anything else.

They’re in the garden and the garden has a pool with water so blue it’s almost luminous, and neat rows of trees, with stringlights between the autumn leaves. Edward is trying to come up with an opinion.

“Frightening amount of cobwebs,” he notes. “Big fat spiders too, that ain’t good.”

“I think that’s Halloween decoration,” Tom says, voice unbearably gentle.

“Ah,” Edward says.

That explains the pumpkin patch.

(Where did October go? Time doesn’t make any sense.)

They’re served breakfast for dinner, at Tom’s request. Edward is immediately charmed when Pony is given her own bowl—there’s a good selection of dog food, too. Edward has packed her three meals, but he decides to treat her to something vaguely salmon flavoured anyway.

“It’s her favourite,” Edward explains above the deafening noise of crunching and munching.

The chic restaurant is clad for Halloween too, with ghost lanterns and a string of paper bats. Tom is helping himself to the free candy placed in a skeleton hand.

“Best holiday ever,” he says. He has a full English laid out in front of him, a generous serving of tea and little shots of juice to test them all. Edward has opted for pancakes with fresh fruit drenched in syrup and a mug of hot chocolate, which tastes surprisingly okay.

He watches Tom inhale everything from his plate, then reach for a strawberry.

“May I?”

“Help yourself.” Edward nudges his plate closer, inclines his head as Tom pops the fruit into his mouth. He just has...all these tender emotions for him, and nowhere to put them. “Been a while since I shared a meal with anybody,” he notes.

“Mm,” Tom mumbles. “No breakfast in bed?”

“Nobody to make breakfast for, um. In ages.”

“I feel you. Haven’t had time for anything serious since...gee, since I was at uni.”

Edward watches him dab at his lips with a napkin, then get his tea, pinkie up.

He has such an intense crush.

Butterflies in his stomach, all that.

“Would you,” he begins, avoiding Tom’s gaze, “would you...want something serious?”

He catches Tom’s smile from the corner of his eye. “I thought I’d be married by now.”

“You’re twenty-nine.”

“I’ll be thirty within a fortnight.”

Edward files that away. “Still.”

“I know I’m still _young_ ,” Tom says with the biggest baby blue eyes ever, “but you know, my dad already had two kids when he was my age, so that feels like...pressure.”

“My dad had seven kids when he was my age,” Edward says. “That feels like a warning.”

“Holy moly.”

“Total number’s twelve. Somehow managed to be the middle child. Just my luck.”

“Are your parents…” Tom looks like he’s searching for a polite way to phrase it, then finishes with a flinch, “...okay?”

“Yeah. Good parents, actually. Disgustingly happy. Pop travels a lot so every time he’s back they act like they’ve been reunited after a century. I don’t think it’s ever been more than a month. Still. They have this little skit with running to each other’s arms at the airport, twirling around.”

“Aww, how nice!”

Edward recalls something Tom told him the first month of their acquaintance. (He has a tendency to overshare.) “Are your parents divorced?”

“Never married,” Tom says, slumps back in his chair. He glances up at the lights above. “Always wanted to. I’d been an unplanned kid, they decided to keep me, but they lived in a one-room apartment with a _lot of_ mold, so they had to move and all that, and having a kid is expensive, so. They postponed it. Had a big jar for savings, an actual jar in the living room, surrounded by photos and candles, like an altar.

“I grew up watching the jar getting filled, then getting emptied for an emergency. By the time I was a teen they put their feet down and set the date for their twentieth anniversary as partners and parents. They said they’d surely have the money by then. Then they had my brother. A second kid just made them more determined, actually. I remember watching telly and eating canned beans and talking about how amazing the wedding would be, Ma said she’d have a train as long as the Thames and Da said his tophat would reach the ceiling. We were doing pretty okay in those days; I mean, I was a teen sharing a room with a toddler, but we got along, and then I got into a boarding school, so everything seemed...okay. Got into uni with a scholarship, they were very supportive, the date was drawing nearer and they started making arrangements, and then Ma drove my brother to the cinema, and there was a drunk driver.”

“Oh, shit,” Edward says, feeling his heart clench. Tom has a rueful smile on his face remembering, laughing in the face of misery, but he looks defeated, and angry, and Edward wants to hug him.

“Ma lost mobility in her arm. She was a stacker at Waitrose, so she lost her job too. Da tried to help her, but he couldn’t stop the pain. Nothing did, just the painkillers. The good stuff, she called it. Fentanyl.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Tom makes to drink from his cup, even though it’s empty. He scowls at it. “You can guess the rest of the story. Da and I tried to help her, we tried everything. She’d go to a drug clinic, then stop going after a few weeks. Da told her it was a dealbreaker, but I mean, she was an addict. She couldn’t just give up the stuff without professional help, but she couldn’t accept help. Just couldn’t. We were stuck in that catch-22 for some time, then Da left. Took my brother. Now he’s living with me. Ma’s a bit better. Well, she’s trying to be. She has some clean months. They’re still in love, but separated, and I think it’ll remain like that.” He settles the cup on the saucer, makes sure the holder is perfectly aligned with the cutlery. “The thing I keep coming back to is the night I caught her stealing money from the wedding jar.”

“I’m so sorry,” Edward says sincerely. He wishes he knew how to comfort people. What to do when someone _else’s_ life sucks.

“You see,” Tom says, “I know it’s not exactly healthy, but I want to get Mr. Crozier’s wedding right. He’s like a parent and...I want him to have the wedding my parents never had? I know that’s stupid.”

“It isn’t. And it wasn’t your fault, what happened to your family.”

“Wasn’t it though? It’s _my_ family. My _family_ , and I couldn’t fix it.”

“You tried your best,” Edward insists. “I know you did.”

Tom sniffs, then starts laughing again, teary and terrible. “Say no to drugs, kids,” he says miserably.

Edward gets up from his seat. Walks around the table, kneels by a very confused Pony. Gathers Tom in his arms.

This is what his parents do, when something hurts. Listen to each other. Hug it out. Stay close.

Tom all but collapses against Edward, buries his face in his neck and grabs the back of his leather jacket. He’s gripping him tightly; Edward is not letting go of him.

“I never bawl in public,” Tom hiccups.

“It’s okay,” Edward whispers into his hair. “Nobody’s looking. I can make us invisible.”

*

Edward waits for Tom to finish in the bathroom. He’s having an actual bath, which is exactly what he deserves. Edward is stroking Pony’s head, who’s in her dog bed, because they’re both pretending she’s not allowed to sleep where Edward does. She’s still within arm’s reach, so it’s okay.

The lights burn low. It’s a lovely room, white and ice blue, with a striped wallpaper and a wood floor which made Tom rejoice. (Apparently, he has something of a personal vendetta against carpets.) There’s an electric fireplace so Edward is just staring into the fake flames, mind racing, but his body too sluggish to keep up.

He’s happy that Tom likes the room.

He’s worried that Tom is hurting.

He wishes he could be a better friend.

He’s relieved that he could comfort him in the restaurant.

He’s somewhat upset that he didn’t pack proper pyjamas, but he has no pyjamas, because he sleeps in a tank top and briefs. Which is like. Normal. Except he’s sharing a bed, and his nipple piercings are showing through the black tank, and his underwear is a pair of snug SAXX boxers with a rainbow band. He has the duvet pulled up to his chin, but he knows he’ll kick it off.

Tom takes a shower, either to wash off the bath or to test that too, Edward doesn’t know.

Brushes his teeth for the recommended three minutes.

Does a lot of clanging and banging.

He probably has an evening routine. Face creams and such. That must be nice.

Maybe if Edward used something beside a wash foam, he wouldn’t have freckles. He’s not sure there’s a connection there, but it’d be worth the test.

Tom drops something and mutters _blimey_.

The water is running.

Edward is imagining the same noises coming from his own bathroom. Shouldn’t. But it’s a fantasy where Tom is happy to be married to him.

Tom emerges in a whiff of lemongrass. He’s in plaid pyjamas. They look ironed. His nose is still a little red, and his eyes are puffy. He looks like death warmed over, and Edward wants to be his husband.

“Thank you for your patience,” Tom says, voice creaky as he hides a yawn in the crook of his elbow. He turns off the fireplace then heads to his side of the bed. He pulls up the duvet, and makes a pleased, lazy sound. “Always a relief when I don’t have to use my own sheets.”

“You packed...sheets?” Edward asks, his hand stilling on Pony’s head.

“Never trust a hotel laundromat, but this one’s okay.” Tom steps out of his slippers and climbs into bed. Edward closes his eyes. It just feels so natural. Like they’ve done it a hundred times. “Can I turn off the lights?”

“Sure.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, Tom.”

The petting resumes. He’s stroking Pony’s ear with some desperation. He needs to hold his dog. Or a pillow. Or something. His heart is so full it aches.

He wants Tom to get a nice sleep more than he’s ever wanted everything. He wants him to have sweet dreams and wake up refreshed. No back pain is preferable. He wants him to enjoy a _really_ lovely cup of tea before they go back to London, and he wants him to get a call from his mum who tells him he did his fucking _utmost_ and he can give himself a break, he’s earned it, he—

“Teddy?” Tom says, voice small in the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Are you awake?”

Edward is touched that Tom thinks he’s the kind of person who can fall asleep in five minutes. “Yeah.”

“Could you…” Tom wets his lips, and then there’s silence. He squirms a little. Turns to face Edward, who’s staring at the ceiling, which he can’t even see in the dark.

His heart is racing so fast. “...Yeah?” he asks.

“It’s silly,” Tom whispers. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so please tell me if it’s weird? I don’t want it to be weird, it’s just, I don’t know, but you don’t have to—”

Edward turns towards him. He can’t see his face. “What do I don’t have to?” he whispers back.

“Hold me?” Tom says.

Edward scoots closer.

Stops.

“You sure?” he asks. “Don't let my name fool you, I make a terrible teddy.”

“Please,” Tom says.

Edward scoots even closer.

There are several ways to do this. Tom opts for coming into Edward’s embrace butt first. Edward makes a strangled sound, makes him slide a little lower. Throws an arm around his chest. Pats him awkwardly, makes Tom giggle.

“I’ll let you know you give great hugs,” Tom mumbles. “Deluxe experience, I swear.”

“I’ll start charging for it.”

“You should, honestly…”

Tom drifts off to sleep in ten minutes, snoring gently.

Edward is wide awake.

*

Sometime during the night, Tom turned to face him. There he is, in the first light of the morning, face soft but brows furrowed, as if in serious thought. Edward is still holding him loosely. Tom’s legs are intertwined with his. His collar has slipped, allowing a glance at his collarbones. Since when are collarbones sexy? They’re very sexy now. The width of Tom’s shoulders, damn. He’s all long and lean and the muscle on him is just. Unfair. Edward moves his fingers in the phantom of a caress. He’s not touching him. He can’t.

He feels like such a pervert.

Tom only asked to be held. So no pets. No kiss on the forehead. He’s asleep. He’s vulnerable.

Tom moans, and rolls closer. He buries his face into Edward’s neck, who stiffens. Everywhere.

Of course he’d have to have morning wood.

Of course.

His nipples are peaked too, because why would they give him a break.

“Good morning,” Tom mumbles, lips moving against Edward’s bare neck. He shivers. That’s, uh. That’s a weak point.

He gets even harder in his briefs.

“Morning,” he manages after several beats. Tom peers at him, eyes bleary and green. Why do his eyes keep changing colour? Must be magic.

“‘ow’d you rate the experience?” Tom asks, and fuck, his accent. It’s right there. His consonants? Not so much. It’s like that _H_ never existed.

Tom makes no move to pull back, or dislodge his legs. Edward swallows thickly. “Ten,” he croaks. Tom hums in acknowledgement, eyes falling shut again.

If they were married, and Tom agreed, Edward would roll him to his back. Pull off the pyjama trousers. Part his thighs. Get his little arse ready. Fuck him slow and languid. Get him filled for the day.

Edward always had a weakness for morning sex.

His dick remembers.

Sex in the morning is nice and warm and not very stressful, because the day hasn’t begun yet, there's no hurry, no backlog on the to-do list, it’d just be Tom and him, and he’d go soft inside of him after they fucked, and stay like that, and Tom would stroke his back and call him a good blanket or something.

“I’m gonna ‘av a showa,” Tom mumbles, and stays in Edward’s arms. He’s so warm all over, except for his feet, which are positively freezing. Edward rubs one with his own foot without thinking. Tom sighs, pleased.

Edward wants to carry him to the shower in his arms. Rub him with soap. Warm him up. Maybe it’s too early for dick, Edward is overly thick, but Tom could take his fingers. He could take his fingers no problem. He’s a good boy like that.

The scratch of his stubble is exquisite.

Edward knows he’s getting a bit too worked up. But it’s okay. There’s a gap between their bodies. A gap he wants to close desperately, but won’t. Not unless Tom asks, and he’s not going to ask.

He’s going to have a shower alone.

He watches Tom get up, and perhaps there’s some reluctance as he gets untangled. Perhaps there isn’t. Maybe he just doesn’t want to get out of bed. It’s a very good bed.

Edward stays under the covers.

Briefly considers a bit of a wank while Tom’s in the bathroom, but that’d just be disrespectful. He reaches for his phone instead and pulls up his work emails. Just like that, his erection is dead.

*

“So lemme get this straight,” Jane says. “You’re wondering if the dude you slept with might be into you.”

“Yeah.”

“Fascinating dilemma.”

Edward regrets mentioning it. But like. They’re twins. He always has the sense that Jane knows what’s up with him anyhow. They sit on the bench in silence for a while, watching Pony play with Jane’s wolfhounds. It’s a game of hide and seek. She’s winning.

“Do you know,” Jane says at length, staring ahead, “when the last time was I slept with anyone platonically?”

“No.”

“I think we were twelve,” she says. “Remember, we still had the bunk bed?”

“Bunk beds don’t count.”

“But you stayed up with Hayter watching _The Thing._ You begged me to hold your hand, but that got uncomfortable. I just caved in and cuddled you. Coward.”

“That film is not appropriate for kids.” Edward looks at her sideways. New lipstick. Same old buzzcut. “Besides,” he says, “that can’t have been the last time you slept with someone platonically. You were at a bunch of sleepovers up until uni.” He pauses. “I remember because I was scared whenever you were away and Hayter made me watch some shit.”

“Aww, that’s sweet.” Jane pats his knee. “Those sleepovers weren’t platonic.”

“...Ah.”

“Yup.”

Edward reconsiders his life in silence.

It’s a bit nippy at the dog park. If he asked, Jane would lend him her jacket. They’re about the same size. It looks warm.

“Anyhow,” he says after a lull. “I don’t see why Tom would fancy me. He’s way out of my league.”

“...the sound technician?”

“Fuck off.” Edward nudges her with his elbow. She nudges him back.

“This is why,” she says.

“What?”

“Because you’re such a puppy.” She makes to pinch his face, but he dodges her expertly.

“He doesn’t like pets,” he counters dolefully.

“...Wow.”

“He likes Pony though.”

Jane shoves at him and groans. “And why do you think that is, dumbass? God.”

“She’s perfect,” Edward says, offended. Pony is taking a well-deserved nap in a tunnel while Jane’s dogs train with the weave poles.

Jane says nothing.

They sit wordlessly. She gets some Maltesers from her totebag. Offers them to Edward. He takes one. Looks at her. Takes more. Takes the bag. “You’re biased, you know,” he says. Pops a chocolate ball into his mouth, lets it melt before speaking again. “You see me in a good light.”

“And he doesn’t?”

“He sees…” Edward makes an encompassing gesture at himself, from muddy boots to his uncombed hair. His shirt should say TECHNICALLY UNEMPLOYED. The anxiety thing must be evident from the set of his shoulders. No disclaimer needed for that.

Jane takes the bag back. “Exactly,” she says. “Still shared your bloody bed, didn’t he?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by the ridiculously talented [@bastaerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd): “modern au, fake proposal(s?) in order to get free dessert at restaurants or something of that order, starting facetiously but ending up either entirely serious or more serious than expected.” I went with the angle that Joplittle aren’t even dating at the start for maximum! yearning!
> 
> Content warnings:  
> \- **Transphobia** briefly rears up its ugly head two times. To skip the first indicent (Tom is refused service), stop reading at “Wonder what her fucking issue is” and pick up at “Neither of them move to walk.” To skip the second (Tom’s academic career affected by TERFs), stop reading at “Having a history degree.” and pick up at “Now my former hobby is my job.”  
> \- Canon typical **implied alcoholism** in the past (Francis)  
> \- detailed discussion of Sarah Jopson's prescription **drug addiction,** which mainly follows the canonical storyline. To skip this, stop reading at “Are your parents divorced?” and pick up after the asterisk; in the interim, Tom tells his family's history to Edward, and starts crying, feeling helpless and frustrated; Edward hugs and comforts him.  
> \- Edward is dealing with a lot of **anxiety** and shame connected to difficulty processing stress, unemployment and social interactions  
> \- Minor allusions to petplay in part two and three
> 
> Credit where credit is due: the titles of The Terror Podcast episodes were lifted directly from E. Royston Pike’s (ed) “Golden Times: Human Documents of the Victorian Age.”
> 
> A million thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for betaing and cheerleading! 💗
> 
> For every [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/630785135249375232/happily-ever-before-a-joplittle-fall-exchange) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1311680401920995330), Pony is getting a treat 🐶🦴


	2. Chapter 2

Tom and him talk every day over the next two weeks, but the question of whether they’re actually dating or just living out a domestic fantasy doesn’t come up. Edward cannot think of any way to weave it into the conversation organically. They still mostly talk about work and the wedding. It might be Edward's fault. He’s trying to keep it professional, because he has this idea not to make a move until the wedding is done with, but it’s getting more and more difficult not to ask Tom out.

He might say no, though.

Jane has her opinion on the matter, but she doesn’t really know the full story. The full story includes Edward being so touch-starved that when they first met at the patisserie, all Tom had to do was take his hand, and then he took his whole life too, like in a song.

Edward supposes that anyone with a dozen siblings would be cuddly, but his case still stands out. How much touch means to him. How he’s been missing it. A hug with friends. Kissing a good-looking man. Even Francis' awkward pats. So no wonder he may be reading too much into a cuddle, but why it also feels like not nearly enough. The only way he could express how Tom makes him feel would be to pleasure him for days, fondle, grip, lick, penetrate. But Tom might not know how special it is. That it’s worship. He might just think Edward wants to hook up.

Hookups are fine, but Tom is a man who was made to be indulged.

*

“Hello,” Tom says over the phone, his voice like a caress. Edward is in his pristine kitchen, staring the espresso machine into compliance.

“Hey,” he says, heart fluttering so much he might not even need the caffeine. “Happy birthday.”

There’s a shocked little laugh on the other end. “You remembered!”

“How could I forget?” Edward says seriously. The machine is starting to make noises, so he steps away from it and nearly topples over Pony. A glance confirms that she’s finished her breakfast, and now wants a treat for a job well done.

“I must confess I nearly forgot,” Tom chats, and there’s a creaking noise, like he’s leaning back in an office chair—settling in for a conversation, Edward hopes. He wants to make him feel comfortable.

“Nothing special planned, then?” he asks, a little...rehearsed.

He’s been thinking about Tom’s birthday nonstop.

“Well, I was planning to work,” Tom says.

“Makes sense. Work makes you happy.” Edward goes to his tiptoes to get a dental chew from the top of the fridge. Inside said fridge is a cake. Lemon and rosemary, with poppy seeds.

“My brother wasn’t so understanding,” Tom complains. “He’s threatening to throw me a party.”

“Oh.” Edward gets so distracted Pony nearly manages to make history and bite him as she’s trying to get to the treat. “Clubbing and such?”

“No way. I’m ancient. I don’t want to be hungover.”

Edward doesn’t mention the amount of drinks and bar hopping that was involved on his own thirtieth birthday. “Uh-huh.”

“He’ll just invite a couple of his friends, because I refused to give him a guest list, order pizza in my honour...I don’t mind that bit at all…” Tom trails off.

Edward glances at the fridge.

There’s not only cake, but dumplings and salt shrimp and fried pepper.

It’s okay.

He procrastinated his offer to treat Tom to a birthday dinner, so now he must deal with the consequences. If the consequences are Tom having fun with other people that’s perfectly fine.

“Sounds good,” he says.

“Always appreciate free food,” Tom agrees.

That’s Edward’s opening.

He’s standing with his phone, lips parted, unable to say the words. _I was meaning to pop over with cake and dinner. If you wanted, I could’ve done that. I wouldn’t have imposed. I just wanted to hand it over and see your smile and be gone._

“Yeah,” he says.

_I was thinking…_

_Would it be okay if…_

“I wanted to ask,” Tom says, shocking him into silence, “if you’d like to come over?”

“...huh?”

“I know it’s late notice,” Tom says, “but it’s very low-key, just my brother and his friends and little old me, and if you could stay a bit, that’d be lovely?” 

The coffee is ready.

Edward goes to fetch the pot, going through the motions of fixing a cup totally zoned out.

This is the thing about Tom.

He doesn’t have to be brave to be with him.

He just gets to _be_.

Showing up is an effort already, and Tom gets it, he gets him.

“I’ll be there,” he says, and Tom’s little _hooray_ stays with him the entire day.

*

He changes outfits five times before he returns to his original outfit, a flannel shirt and black joggers with the added comfort of a leather jacket and the chunky Grenson boots he wears for walkies. He doesn’t have to put on business casual for Tom. Tom will just be happy to see him.

It’s frightening.

*

He nearly cancels the entire thing when he realises he can’t possibly take Pony. One: it’s Tom’s place; it’s probably not puppy-proof. Two: there will be presumably loud people there, and Pony doesn’t like loud people.

He can’t bring himself to text Tom, though.

He fills Pony’s bowls, leaves a light on and leaves her alone, only turning back one time to say an emotional goodbye.

*

A new wave of panic hits him when the door opens and it’s not Tom. The stranger has Tom’s hair, shiny-black, but it reaches his jawline. He has a pointy nose like him, but his eyes are grey, and lined with kohl. He has a frilly dress shirt on and a lot of jewelry.

“Hello,” he says, tone monotone. “You must be Tommy’s fiance.”

Edward blinks. “I’m Edward Little.”

“Yeah,” the man says, offering his hand. “Call me Jopsie.”

It would never have occured to Edward to call him Jopsie. Jopsie drops his hand and pulls back into his lair, movements languid like a jellyfish. “Tommy, Edward’s here.”

Edward peers around in what’s apparently the kitchen. There’s a designated area for shoes, so he drops his shoes there. There’s a lot of mismatched furniture, all in sparkling white, but the shapes and sizes differ greatly. Tom materialises in the door with a plastic tray of mugs and wineglasses.

“Teddy!” he exclaims, his smile bright but his eyes tired. “How good to see you!”

“Give it here,” Jopsie mutters, reaching for the tray as he passes him. “Just sit back.”

“I can’t, I have a guest to welcome,” Tom says, gingerly picking up a glass. “Teddy, love, this is _your_ glass with the Chapel Down logo, and you must hold onto it for dear life, because we don’t have enough, alright?”

This tone of voice is not something Edward has heard before. He scoffs, fond. “How many kids has Jopsie invited?” he says, tilting his head towards the room the boy vanished into.

“I counted six,” Tom whispers. “Average age is twenty-two, and I’m not serving alcohol to anyone below eighteen, mark me…”

Edward grins.

This is a lot.

This is overwhelming.

But Tom is here.

“Let me show you around,” Tom says, reaching to take his jacket. Edward readily lets himself get undressed. “What’s that?” Tom quips.

Edward frowns at the bag in his hand. He forgot it was there. “Got you some cake,” he says. “There’s some takeout too.”

Tom’s eyes go huge. “You always know what I need,” he says, smiling, but it doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He sounds a bit desperate, in fact. Definitely breathless.

There’s a loud noise from the living room, then laughter, but they’re too lost staring at each other to pay it any mind.

* 

Tom’s place is...something. It’s very clean. All his plants are thriving.

It’s also tiny.

He shares it with Jopsie, who lives in the living room. His friends sit on his bed and the floor. Most of them wear dark colours, but not all. The wall is covered with posters and morbid photos. Jopsie has heaps of books and about a hundred candles but no wardrobe: his clothes are in a grey canvas box. There are some posters on that, too.

The bathroom is trying to be cozy, but the fluorescent lights don’t help. The floor is cracked in a few places, and there’s a huge yellow stain on the ceiling from water damage. No amount of tastefully chosen shower curtains and fluffy rugs can make up for that.

Tom’s room opens from the bathroom, and it’s about the same size. It’s perfectly organised and could very well fit the tiny house tour of some influencer: it has the bohemian charm of a place that’s truly lived in, with photos and memorabilia and thrift store finds, but it has the distinct lack of, for example, a bed.

“I have a Murphy bed,” Tom brags, and unfolds a single mattress with a blue quilt and piles of pillows from a wardrobe.

Edward can’t imagine having sex in it.

And he shouldn’t.

But there he is.

It’d collapse under their combined weight.

“Do you like it?” Edward asks.

“Yeah!” Tom says with genuine enthusiasm.

Edward likes it a bit better already. He wants to tell Tom that he made this place beautiful, that he has a talent for it, but there’s a knock on the half-ajar door. Jopsie stands there, a hand over his closed eyes.

“Sorry, can’t find the remote control.”

“It’s on the thing,” Tom says, then sighs at his own butchered explanation and heads out. Jopsie parts his fingers, peeks at Edward.

“You need to make him sit down,” he says, “and watch a bloody film with us. Please. It’s been on his to-watch list for years. He loves Wes Anderson, he just physically cannot chill.”

“I’ll try,” Edward promises, even though he has no idea why Jopsie is asking him, why he thinks he has that kind of influence, and also, why he seems to think that Tom and him would hook up with several people in the other room and the door open.

 _He’s just taking the piss_ , Edward decides, although Jopsie’s face is painfully serious as he regards him. His head is tilted slightly and he's not blinking.

"You're okay," he announces at length.

Edward's hands are clammy with sweat.

*

 _The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou_ turns out to be far more depressing than Edward expected based on the supposedly happy occasion of a birthday and the pastel aesthetics of the film, but then again. He hasn’t been following the plot closely. He’s somewhat distracted by Tom nestled in his arms.

It was...gradual.

First of all: the only place left free by the kids (and they _are_ kids, one of them is even called Young) was an inflatable couch covered with a quilt. Managing to sit on it would’ve been a challenge _without_ wine and cake, but with it, they had to be extra creative. He offered his shoulder to Tom for balance, and it escalated from there in the name of necessity and comfort.

Or so Edward thinks.

Because, well.

He’d been a tad self-conscious about his chest when Tom elected to use it as a pillow, because yes. It’s a bit soft. But Tom seems to enjoy it. And it feels nice to cradle him in his arms. To rest his chin on the top of his head. Smell his hair.

Maybe they’re like those friends who’re very affectionate and cuddle with each other.

He noticed that Tom has lots of pats and hugs to give to Jopsie.

Admittedly, he’s not cuddling him.

In front of everybody.

On his birthday.

Edward’s mind keeps going back to the Murphy bed. If the flat was empty. If there were just the two of them and Tom wanted more, Edward could give something special to his birthday boy. He could bring him off with his mouth. He’d keep going until his jaw ached and Tom yelled, hoarse with his third orgasm. Edward would make him come, and come, and come. Hold him in his arms. Tell him he did well. 

He imagines them lying in the tub after, in the exact position they’re in now. Tom’s legs open, knees bent. Edward’s arm around his chest, and Tom holding onto it. The warmth of his body. Candles burning. Some rosepetals, fuck it. Bathbombs? Maybe. An ex-boyfriend had told Edward they were too much but perhaps Tom wouldn’t complain. Edward pictures glitter on his slick skin, shimmering in the candlelight as he reaches up, pulls in Edward for a kiss, smiling.

His hand moves on Tom’s chest, instinctively. Tom makes a noise—hums with it, but Edward cannot be certain, because the film is loud and there are a lot of people around.

He should remember the latter as he ogles Tom’s tum. His cream-coloured sweater has escaped the French tuck and Edward can see a hint of a treasure trail in the near-darkness. He wants to follow it with his fingers.

There are more subtle ways to signal Tom that he’s interested.

He should control himself.

Tom moves around a bit, his back rubbing against Edward’s nipple piercings. He bites his lips.

Tom slumps against him happily, still gripping the arm around his chest with one hand, the other holding a mug of wine gingerly.

“You’re so comfortable,” he mumbles. Just when there’s a pause in the dialogue. One of the kids (Something Golding) snorts.

Edward tries to keep his attention on the plot.

Can’t.

He reaches for the wine bottle instead.

*

The film is over and so is his life, because Tom stands up and stretches, and thus the treasure trail is revealed fully.

It’s a thing of beauty.

“I should be heading home,” Edward croaks. Tom drops his arms, pouts, and Edward wants to take it back. Say that he’s staying forever.

“You must be missing Pony,” Tom says, gentle. Sidesteps some dirty plates on the ground, then bends to pick them up. Jopsie kicks out a leg to stop him. 

“We got it.”

Tom takes Jopsie’s ankle, arches a brow in an expression eerily reminiscent to Francis’, and starts pulling him off the bed. Jopsie gasps, mock-offended, and grabs for Whatshisname Evans.

Edward takes the opportunity to politely slither away. It’s a cute scene, and he shouldn’t be intruding.

Except he’s hardly finished tying one boot when Tom joins him again, flushed and bright-eyed. “I’ll see you out,” he announces.

Edward doesn’t point out that he can leave on his own. (He’s very good at that.)

“Ta,” he says, puts on the second boot as Tom slips into slippers.

It’s chilly in the stairwell: the brick walls radiate cold, and the air smells like wet cement. Tom hugs himself and pointedly ignores the lift, taking the stairs instead, even though he lives on the fourth floor. Edward follows, dazed from the wine. He’s staring at the back of Tom’s clever head, where his hair has gotten a bit long. He’s got sideburns coming in too. They’d suit him, Edward thinks.

Tom demonstrates how to push a big red button to get the gate open. They step out to the street. It’s getting late: the lights burn orange, a lone bus passes in the distance. Edward puts his hands into his pocket.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he says.

“Thank you for coming. And for the cake and dumplings!”

Edward frowns a bit. “We didn’t eat the dumplings.”

“I’m keeping them all for myself.”

“Share one with Jopsie. For me.”

“Well, he can have some for trying to cheer up good ol’ grandpa here.” Tom sighs, leaning to the gate. “I’m so out of touch with his generation. I feel old.”

“Don’t. Your thirties will be tremendous.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” Edward shrugs. “You just get to wing it. I liked being thirty.”

“How old are you again?”

“Thirty-four. Ish.”

“I thought we were the same age!” Tom says, brightening, and sways a bit in place. Edward’s not the only one who kept the wine coming through the film. “Four years, gee!”

“Five, actually. My birthday’s in a month.”

“When?”

“Fourteenth.”

“We were born on the same day!”

Edward blushes, for some reason, and rubs his nape. “Not technically.”

“We’re fourteenth-pals still.” Tom winks at him, so now Edward has a reason to blush. “Five years my senior, huh!”

“Yeah, I...don’t act like it, I guess.”

“Codswallop. I do look up to you.”

“Why?”

“Seen your CV, for a start.”

Edward shrugs, which is a bad idea, because it makes him vaguely nauseous. “I quit everything. I think. Except Francis.”

It feels strange to say it out loud. To admit it. To watch Tom’s face, which doesn’t change—no shadow of judgement, or disappointment. He’s leaning to the gate, fiddling with the keys but all his attention on Edward.

“Nobody can take away your achievements,” he says, a bit slurred. “Not even yourself. You’re a great TD, Teddy, you know that, right?”

“Er,” Edward says. His gaze drops to Tom’s slippers and he rubs his nape again.

“Certainly my favourite,” Tom purrs. Edward meets his gaze. Tom is smiling at him, in that easy way he has, his dimples framing his flushed face.

Edward could kiss him.

“You’re a brilliant editor,” he says. “While we’re at it. Best I’ve worked with.”

“And we both have a future in wedding organisation,” Tom deadpans. He has a habit of deflecting compliments with jokes. Edward steps close. Makes sure that Tom is looking at him.

“I think you’re fantastic,” he says seriously. “In every way.”

Tom’s eyes are blue and large, red-rimmed.

“You work so hard,” Edward goes on. “And I’m not going to stop you. I know this is the only way you feel valid. Pushing to the limit. Pushing further. I just think you should, ah. Bask in your achievements, from time to time. Take your own advice.”

“I’ll take stock and rest when the wedding is over,” Tom promises, his wide gaze flicking over Edward’s face.

“You’ll rest when you’re dead,” Edward says, soft. The gate almost closes, so he reaches above Tom’s head to stop it. “But it’s your birthday, yeah? Maybe you could sleep in for a change.” His gaze drops to Tom’s lips. Back to his eyes. “Can you promise me eight hours?”

“Mm.” Tom says. His pupils are dark and fat. “I thought it was _my_ birthday, Teddy. I thought _I_ was getting a gift, yeah?”

Edward tilts his head. Tom’s lips are just a breath away. It’d be so easy to close the distance.

Edward pecks him on the cheek instead. It’s a birthday kiss, soft, sweet, sober. Tom’s skin is warm and—

Tom kisses him back, except he kisses his neck. A brush of his lips just above the pulse point.

Arousal washes through Edward. The hand holding the gate curls into a fist, and he makes a soft noise which is entirely involuntary. Tom pulls back, smiling.

“To bed with you,” Edward growls.

“Goodnight, then,” Tom says, chipper. Almost a dare. Challenging Edward to leave if he can.

But what option does he have? They have way too many guests upstairs. They’ve had too much to drink, and Tom is clearly overtired. Edward can’t drag him across half the town to his own home with an overexcited dog just to then not even be able to maintain an erection, because that happens when wine happens. Tom would fall asleep on him before he’s finished.

Flirting is one thing.

Sleeping with Tom tonight would be a miserable mistake.

“Sweet dreams,” Edward says. 

Tom waves at him, which is way too cute, considering they’re still standing toe to toe.

*

Edward wakes with a pounding headache, the kind that pulses behind the eyes. He groans, face buried into his memory pillow.

It’s beyond him how he’s managing to be horny.

Every part of his body aches.

His dick especially.

He adjusts it firmly, rolls to his side. Reaches for his phone with a hand still down his briefs, just to see what time it is.

It’s ten in the fucking morning. That sucks. Tom had sent him a photo like five minutes ago. That's good.

He bites his lips, pulls it up without thinking.

It shows Tom curled up in his Murphy bed, blanket pulled up to his pointy nose. Edward can still tell he’s smiling, from the way his sleepy eyes are creasing. _8.5 hours!_ , the caption says.

Edward is staring at the pic, and finally lets go of his dick. Curses, softly. He can still feel Tom’s lips on his neck. The tickle of his breath. The warm smell of his hair and the scent of wet cement that surrounded them by the gate, the soft glow of the streetlights and the radiance inside, beneath his skin, burning him. 

He should’ve kissed him proper.

He knows why he didn’t, he knows all the fucking reasons, but—

He sighs.

Wiggles a bit so the blanket hides his awakening dick. Snaps a photo of his bed, massive and _empty_ , even with him and Pony in it—Pony on her own blankie by Edward’s feet. There’s a Tom-shaped absence here.

He sends the picture without a caption.

Then gets mad at himself.

 _good job_ , he types out. Hits send.

 _im trying to lead by example._ Send _._

 _id send a selfie but im not as cute as u in the am._ Send.

He lets the phone drop to the mattress, throws an arm over his eyes. Whines.

(His dick is still hard. Funny that he worried about that. Maybe because he never took someone like Tom home before.)

He feels the phone buzz. Doesn’t reach for it. If he stays like this, the bed will swallow him, eventually. All the dark blue sheets, like the sea.

He wants to look at the picture Tom sent before he vanishes, though. Look at it one last time. Those gorgeous eyes.

 **Thomas Jopson:** Awww 💖 Well I know someone who thinks you’re pretty darn cute, haha!

 **Edward Little:** how do u know my mum

 **Thomas Jopson** : 😂

 **Thomas Jopson** : Now I don’t want to get out of bed, but I gotta 🥺 What have you done to me, Teddy?

 **Edward Little** : im clearly a bad influence

 **Thomas Jopson** : The worst! 😤

 **Edward Little** : will u ever forgive me

 **Thomas Jopson** : Mmmaybe if you accompany me today? It’s just a side-quest, but I miss you already, haha

 _Miss you too_ , Edward types, and he has just enough self control not to hit send. Not enough not to agree to another pretend-date.

*

Edward is back where it all started. Back by DIGGLE’S DREAM CAKES, in the playground, which is empty, because it’s cold and overcast. He’s all alone on the swing, his long black coat sweeping the ground as he pushes himself forward, hair in his eyes.

This is fine.

He’s just a man, desperately hungover, hunched over and half in love with his co-worker.

He feels like a puddle.

At least Pony is enjoying the trip. Her tail is thump-thump-thumping to the soft wood chips below the swings. Her gaze is fixed on something, and Edward realises she’s not like, just generally thrilled to be outside. She’s thrilled to see Tom.

Edward turns with the swing, the chains crossing.

So here he is. Here’s Tom in his sexy coat with his sexy scarf and sexy gloves, holding two paper cups of coffee and smiling. Edward doesn’t deserve him, but here he is. They’re fake-engaged and play-flirting. He’s supposed to make heads and tails of it. Somehow. Eventually.

“Hello, three sugars,” Tom says as he sits on the swing next to Edward. Pushes himself forward, and offers one of the cups. “Cheers!”

Or maybe right away.

Before it’s too late and he makes a fucking fool of himself.

“Ta,” Edward mutters. Takes it, his heart doing funny things. It’s espresso, because Tom knows him.

“Anything for my hubby-to-be,” Tom beams. He says it so easily. He says it like he means it.

“You treat me well,” Edward says carefully. He catches a whiff of Tom’s vanilla latte as he brings it to his smiling lips. He looks coy. Catches Edward watching. Lets him.

Edward takes a quick gulp and burns his tongue.

“Oh dear, no rush,” Tom says. “They’re just muffins and the jackalope party is a month away, I just thought to myself why not get it done today, so take your time with the coffee?”

Edward doesn’t hear half of what Tom’s saying, because Tom is cute and they almost kissed yesterday, didn’t they, and Edward has about a hundred emotions about that. Mostly panic. “...Jackalope?” he asks.

“Oh, because Mx. Fitzjames is not a hen or a stag, so.”

“Oh.”

Tom parts his lips and leans back a little, which sends the swing forward. He makes a surprised sound and grabs the chain. Now he’s spinning, absolutely appalled; whatever he was going to say is lost to a shocked scoff.

Edward grabs the seat with one hand, stills him. Tom looks at him like he saved him. His gaze is so soft. Has it always been like that? Eyelashes drooping and the pupils wide and dark even in the bright gold light.

“Thanks,” he says. “I'm _so_ clumsy today, you wouldn't believe it, but in my defence, I’m hungover and I overslept.”

“You slept a normal amount,” Edward grumbles.

“I might have little experience with sleep, but I know how to nap.” Tom adjusts his hair. He has...a reaction to Edward’s voice. In retrospect, that’s a thing that sometimes...happens. Edward just has to make it a bit rough around the edges.

“Is that so?” he says, pulling Tom’s swing closer, as an experiment. Tom’s eyes grow huge. He doesn’t recoil.

“I’ll let you know that I can nap anytime, anywhere,” he says, voice like velvet. “I’m determined and quite flexible.”

“Like a cat.” 

“Mm. I do sleep better when I’m being petted.”

Edward wonders what the fuck they’re doing, exactly.

His theory is that Tom is flirting with him.

He’s been flirting with him…for a while. Possibly this entire time.

Edward can’t deny that he’s been flirting right back. He’s still grabbing the seat and his thumb is following the inseam of Tom’s trousers. Tom takes a luxurious sip from his coffee, watching Edward from over the rim.

He got Edward coffee.

Is this a date?

But they’re here to get muffins for the jackalope party.

They’ll probably say it’s for their own stag night.

They’re not having a stag night because they’re not getting married.

Tom is just a mate.

Except they were never friends. They went straight to handholding and _Teddy_ and _darling_.

To Edward running whenever Tom beckons.

He could’ve stayed home today.

Except he stopped staying home.

Because he wants to be with Tom.

“What are we?” he blurts.

Tom inclines his head, like he doesn’t quite understand. Edward grabs the other side of the seat, pulls Tom close and twists the chains so they’re facing each other.

“If I’m a cat,” Tom says, still a bit confused, “you’re a puppy, I think?”

“Fuck,” Edward says, crushed by cuteness, and puts his forehead to Tom’s chest, because he can’t.

He just can’t. 

Tom caresses his nape. It doesn’t even feel intentional, like there’s no other goal to his touch than touching Edward, playing with his too-long hair, but there’s _certainly_ affection there, and maybe even—

Edward is staring down Tom’s endless legs.

—desire.

Tom winds a curl around his finger. Tugs playfully.

Edward bites down a whine. He’s grabbing Tom’s seat with such force he might break it. At least this way his hands are not shaking. “Am I your puppy?” he asks miserably, because he has no other way to phrase it, he sucks at communicating, but he wants Tom to get it.

“Do you want to be?” Tom says, breathless.

Edward cranes his neck to peer up at him. Can’t see shit. Isn’t willing to pull away, but he must face him. Maybe. 

It’s easier to address his shoulder. “When I say puppy. I don’t mean like. A dog.”

“I caught up, yeah,” Tom says. He sounds a bit vulnerable, and Edward doesn’t want to make him feel like that. He wants to make him feel good. Nothing but good.

He probes him with his nose. Tom chuckles; maybe he’s ticklish. He ruffles up Edward’s hair. “Who’s my boyfriend?” he coos, but it’s a bit shaky.

Edward gathers his courage to look at him.

Tom is...lost. Happy. Bewildered. Apprehensive. Excited.

Tom feels like him.

“I hope it’s me?” Edward says, pulling back.

Tom takes a calculated sip from his coffee, eyes glinting mysteriously. Edward remembers his own cup, chugs from it to hide his nervousness.

Fuck, he hopes it’s him.

He wants to be Tom’s boyfriend pretty badly.

Tom spins away, and pushes himself forward until he’s flying. He kicks out his legs, and the flash of his ankles is enough to make Edward feel some kind of way. He’s in deep.

“I’ll admit that it’s been weird and a touch confusing," Tom muses, "but you must know that you’re clever and reliable and kind and ridiculously hot. I also _think_ you’re not exactly neutral towards me.”

“Not exactly neutral, no,” Edward admits. (The finer details are up for debate.)

Tom uses the momentum of the next push to jump out of the swing. He lands on his feet softly, like a cat. He gets hold of Edward’s chain, just above his hand.

Edward caresses his knuckles with a thumb. There’s still something hesitant in Tom’s eyes, even though he’s smiling, even though he doesn’t pull away.

“Where does this leave us, then?” Tom asks, then rephrases, “What do you want?”

His hair falls forward as he’s bending down to Edward. He doesn’t adjust it, so Edward does it for him. Tom searches his gaze, then kisses his wrist.

They could have this.

They absolutely could.

Shouldn’t.

“I don’t want anything to change,” Edward confesses. “Too much at stake. Don’t wanna fuck up the wedding.”

“Why would you mess up the wedding?” Tom asks, lips brushing Edward’s skin.

“I have a track record of fucking up important things,” Edward elaborates, because he owes it to Tom, because he must know. “The wedding is important to you. I’m terrified of...being that person who fucked it up.” 

Tom presses a kiss to his palm, pulls back. His gaze is unguarded. “I’m scared too, puppy,” he says softly. “Not that you’ll do something bad, because I trust you, just—the timing is wrong. The timing is always _wrong_. Because I never make time for…” He scrunches up his face, looks away. “It’s work. Married my job before I married you.”

“We’re having some hell of an affair,” Edward mumbles. It was meant to be a joke, but Tom nods seriously.

“Exactly! I, uh. I don’t think it hit me until I was on the underground this morning, just so excited to see you again, and then I was checking my reflection and touching the place where you kissed me and I realised how—far this has gone, but I’m enjoying the ride.” Tom sighs. “I’m enjoying it too much to get off.”

Edward bites his lips before he says _‘literally.’_ Tom looks at him like he thought of the same thing. Neither of them say it, and that’s bad. Edward doesn’t want to lose that. Their silly jokes. The flirting.

“What if we enjoyed it a little longer?” he says, inching closer with his swing and clutching Pony’s leash and his crumpled cup of coffee. He must look miserable. Like he has nothing to offer. But Tom sees something in him. Apparently. He’s standing awfully close, for one thing, with Edward’s thighs bracketing his knees. “Let’s just...carry on until the wedding. Be friends...colleagues, who are fake married. Not commit to anything. Then I take you on a date. A real one. And we start where it’s supposed to start.” He swallows. Can’t meet Tom’s gaze. It’s silly. He knows it’s silly. Probably cowardly. Back when he wasn’t riddled with anxiety, he used to just date men.

Tom sinks his fingers into his hair. Pulls him closer, until Edward’s face is buried in his stomach, and keeps him there. “You’re so clever,” he says. “That’s a good idea.”

“It’s terrible,” Edward says.

“I like it, though. A _pact_.” Edward can hear him smile around the word, and the next thing he knows, he has a lapful of Tom Jopson. Tom’s straddling his hips confidently, determination steeling his eyes to grey. “It’s like a proper arranged marriage. Barely see each other until the wedding, huh? Someone _else’s_ wedding, but…”

“Still counts.” Edward gazes up at him, not quite believing his bloody luck. He’ll get to take him on a _date_.

He cannot wait.

*

He can’t wait at all. Maybe this _was_ a terrible idea, because now Tom is stuffing his face full of cupcakes, laughing and chatting away, a hand covering his mouth modestly, and Edward wants to stay. He wants to spend the entire day at DIGGLE’S DREAM CAKES, treat Tom to everything on the menu until the morning turns to afternoon, then walk him home through London, kiss him until evening. Soak up every minute of his company. Nothing changed, but everything is different, because now he knows why Tom’s gaze lingers, that every touch is happily given, that when Tom handfeeds him, it’s not platonic. His fingers slide into Edward’s mouth along a bite of mint chocolate cupcake, feeling out his teeth as Tom looks at him intently.

“Do you like that?” he says, his voice dropped low. Edward is glad they’re alone in the tasting room, because the sound he makes in answer is, well. Filthy.

He doesn’t even like the cupcake.

He presses a kiss to Tom’s fingertips when he pulls his hand back and announces, “Bit toothpaste-y.”

“That’s a two-in-one deal. You get to have good dental hygiene _and_ eat sweets.”

“Not convinced.”

“Can I tempt you—”

“Yes.”

“—to some mocha cupcakes.” Tom picks up one delicately, pinkie lifted. Edward bows his head to lick up the cream, but Tom’s phone buzzes in his waistcoat pocket before he could commit to the act. He eats the cupcake like a normal person while Tom looks at his notification, frowning.

“Will you be terribly upset if I gotta bolt in ten?”

“Not at all. That’s the point of the whole arrangement. Go do your thing, I’ll wait.”

“Until bloody December,” Tom mutters with a sigh. Edward offers him the rest of the cupcake in consolation.

“We can wait a month,” he assures him, and almost believes it until he watches Tom swallow then clean his mouth primly.

“I think we have a winner, though,” Tom announces.

Edward’s lips form the words “It pairs well with the popcorn-vanilla and the chocolate peanut butter pretzel” but he has no idea what the hell he’s talking about.

He has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

But Tom is with him.

For nine more minutes.

He walks him out of the patisserie after placing the order, holding his hand as long as he can. Tom turns to face him, makes their linked arms swing. “It’s been a delight. See you…”

“Whenever,” Edward says.

“Yeah.” Tom squeezes his hand, then his head shoots up. “I almost forgot in all the excitement! There.” He gets a small brown bag from his trusty satchel. Edward peers inside it.

It’s dog treats.

“Salmon,” Tom says shyly, his dimples showing. “You said she liked that best?”

Edward is looking into a bag of processed meat and he’s so overcome with love he could weep.

*

Edward makes coffee in the morning.

Tom Jopson fancies him.

He takes Pony for her walkie.

Tom Jopson fancies him.

He picks up her waste with a plastic bag and nearly drops it right back.

Tom Jopson fancies him nevertheless.

He gets paninis for breakfast and snaps a picture. Sends it to Tom.

He goes through Francis’ mine accidents script, avoids his emails, takes Pony out again, gets lunch, then dinner, showers, arranges parking for the reception and proofreads the ceremony program, fucks around on his phone, goes to bed, all while knowing that Tom Jopson fancies him. He can’t stop reading back his texts and grinning at them. When Tom asks for a good night selfie he takes a photo unselfconsciously, even though he skipped shaving that day and his hair has entered the seventies.

 **Thomas Jopson** : Your smile makes me melt 😌 Have I ever told you that?

 **Edward Little:** goodnight to a very handsome liquid

 **Thomas Jopson:** Good night, betrothed

Edward makes coffee in the morning.

His smile makes Tom Jopson melt.

*

Somehow, he’s at the studio. Tom had something to do with it, and also with the fact that Edward put on his best hoodie from Valentino and had foregone a baseball cap after careful consideration. Tom seems to appreciate the knee cut jeans, because he’s toying with a cut as Edward sits by him in his old metal chair by the mixer desk, Pony in his lap. He’s checking the channels instinctively, hands moving on the levels like a pianist touching the keys, not even looking while he fixes the noisy mic preamps Tom complained about.

“How did you get Francis to use a pop filter?” Edward asks, nodding his head to the new piece of equipment. The studio is in a better state than he left it—it used to be nothing but the soulless grey of the soundproof walls and storage boxes; now there are proper shelves and _succulents._

“I suggested it very politely,” Tom says, tracing the bump of Edward’s knee. Edward doesn’t think his knee is very interesting, but Tom seems fascinated by it.

“Previous guy used to just edit Francis' lisp out.”

Tom frowns. The utter distaste on his face is so adorable Edward can barely resist kissing his nose, then he remembers he—doesn’t have to hold back. That he can absolutely kiss Tom’s nose, so he does so while Tom complains, “I don’t like that at all. Loses authenticity.”

“Mm. Had complaints about his accent, too.”

“What a wanker.” Tom says the mild pejorative so _darkly_ it makes Edward grin.

“Lucky he quit.”

“Mr. Crozier said he fired him.”

“He quit,” Edward says with a shrug, checking the shock mount next.

“Alcohol-related?”

“Yeah. Couldn’t cope.” There’s a beat. “I couldn’t either. I, uh.” He glances at Tom sheepishly. “I never thanked you for picking up the slack. I was so fed up. I was ready to give up on him. Then he hired you. And I just thought...great, there’ll be someone else to bring him booze from the fucking Tesco Express on the corner.”

“God, he made you go to Tesco too?” Tom asks with genuine sympathy.

Edward nods, flinching at the memory of the looks the cashiers gave him. Francis wouldn’t buy his booze in bulk, not even through an employee. It'd have made him look bad. So Edward just picked up _a_ bottle. _A_ bottle every other day. Then every day. Then every few hours.

“You saved him,” he tells Tom earnestly, who waves it away.

“Rubbish. I used to enable him out of sheer admiration. Put whiskey in his tea, he didn’t even have to ask. _He_ made the decision to stop.”

“I mean, yeah. But do you think he could’ve pulled it off without you?”

“He just needed someone to care for him,” Tom says softly. He squirms in his seat a bit, his head hanging low and ears burning. He’s in that pyjama-striped shirt again, white and light blue, with a matching cardigan. Cardigans have no right to look this good on anyone, yet here they are.

Edward puts a finger under Tom's chin. Makes him meet his gaze. “You’ve always been kind and caring, even when he didn’t deserve it,” he says, which makes Tom scoff.

“Everybody deserves care, flatterer.”

“We’re lucky to have you in our lives.” Edward’s finger slips lower, down Tom’s throat. Feels him swallow. “I’m lucky.” He tugs at the cable of Tom’s headset. Tugs him closer. Tom swoons in, until he’s just a breath away. Searches Edward’s gaze, his eyes crinkling up.

“Are you going to kiss me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“I don’t know.”

Edward kisses his nose again. Tom stays close; his eyelashes flutter against Edward’s, a hand sinking into his hair. “I really wanted you to kiss me by the gate,” he says in a whisper. “I want _you_ to kiss _me_ , but I can’t initiate it, which tells me something—like I’m expecting you to make the first move to ah, break our sacred vow.”

“Eager to be ravished, huh?” Edward grumbles. Tom’s hand sinks lower, following the line of his jaw, stroking his muttonchops.

“The Scripture says we shan’t even lock lips until the wedding, Mr. Little,” Tom says with an affected air, barely hiding his grin. Edward can feel his teeth against his lips.

“The Scripture also says men can’t lie with men,” he says, kisses the corner of Tom’s mouth.

“Leviticus eighteen is actually about a code of purity meant to distinguish the behaviour of Israelites from the polytheistic Canaanites, not a condemnation of all homosexual activity,” Tom whispers in a breath, the tip of his tongue spelling out each sound.

“Fascinating, I didn’t know that,” Edward mumbles, brushing his lips over Tom’s. Tom sighs, as if breathing life into him, his hands sinking deeper into his muttonchops.

“Isn’t your best friend a priest?”

“John’s volunteering as a cantor and Gerogie’s a Catholic whore, so not exactly, no.” Edward attempts to pull Tom into his lap, which Pony doesn’t appreciate. Tom snorts at the sound she makes, looks at Edward slyly.

“Perhaps I shall be introduced to your friends and family before you claim my virtue, sir.”

“A virgin, are you, Mr. Jopson?”

Tom blinks at him, eyes huge. “I heard anal doesn’t count.”

Edward barks a laugh, buries his face in Tom’s shoulder to recover.

“Will it hurt?” Tom presses on, his accent absolutely abhorrent. “Are you very big, Mr. Little?”

“Why don’t you see for yourself?”

“There’s literally a dog in your lap.”

“On our wedding night, I mean. I’ll put a bow on it.”

“If you put a bow on your cock I’m walking out of that hotel room and I’ll sleep in the lobby.”

“That’s fair.”

Tom gets up, stretches, lazy like a kitten in sunlight. “If we were dating already,” he says, then corrects, “were lawfully wedded in the eyes of God, I’d absolutely ask you to get it out now, just so you know.”

“Noted,” Edward gulps. Tom winks at him, getting a mug of long-abandoned, tepid tea from the desk. The shadows under his eyes have gotten darker, silver shows in his stubble and his lips are chapped.

He’s beautiful.

*

 **Thomas Jopson** : My desire to espy your member has not subdued, sir

 **Edward Little** : are u asking for a dickpic, mr. jopson

 **Thomas Jopson** : Slander!

 **Thomas Jopson** : (Perhaps?)

 **Edward Little:** hmm

 **Edward Little** : thought u were at work ;)

 **Thomas Jopson** : When am I not! Lol I’m already multitasking with the Seating Chart of Doom

 **Edward Little** : do u want help

 **Thomas Jopson** : I 👏want 👏 dickpic 😘🍆 (Please?)

Edward looks down at himself. Conveniently, he’s in a towel. He showered...about an hour ago. He’s just not emotionally ready to put on clothes yet. He’s vibing with Pony in the living room, Battlestar Galactica droning on in the background. He’s nice and cozy. Dick limp.

But well.

He only has to think about Tom, right? Tom begging for his cock. Which is exactly what he’s doing, in actual reality. He wants Edward’s cock to be hard, and he can’t let him down.

He strokes himself as he marvels at these facts. That he can help Tom like this. Please him. Make him happy. And it’s so easy to just think of the elegant arch of Tom’s body, slender legs parting, his sweater rucked up, imagine the weight of his hand as he guides Edward’s hand over his skin, whispering _that’s it_ and _please, please_ as Edward caresses the dark trail of hair, palms at his chest, teases a peaked nipple—

He pinches himself there, grunts involuntarily as pleasure rushes through his body. He only has to tweak the piercing to make himself gasp again, his cock filling under his hand. He sees Tom, neck bent, throat exposed for Edward’s lips, so he could kiss his way up then lick into Tom’s mouth, swallow his moans.

He wants to know what he enjoys. What sounds he makes. The look on his face when he takes Edward’s cock into his mouth. If he swallows.

 **Edward Little** : tried my best

 **Thomas Jopson** : Holy crap?

 **Thomas Jopson** : Edward

 **Thomas Jopson** : Love

 **Thomas Jopson** : Is that the angle, or are you enormous?

 **Edward Little** : seen bigger

 **Thomas Jopson** : WHERE

 **Thomas Jopson:** Appreciate the towel for modesty, because I’m dying over here

 **Thomas Jopson:** In the best way!

 **Edward Little:** ...size kink?

 **Thomas Jopson:** What can I say, I love a challenge ❤️

 **Thomas Jopson** : This made my day, thank you

 **Thomas Jopson:** Forgot to mention, I can 100% bottom when asked nicely

 **Edward Little** : yeah i read your cv

 **Thomas Jopson:** Shut up ❤️

 **Thomas Jopson:** Brb gotta start training for your gorgeous cock 💪

*

They’re near Markfield Park, freezing their ass off while waiting for Cornelius in front of RAT ROCK STUDIO. Tom is wrapped in a neat grey peacoat; Edward is in a parka; Pony in a thermal vest she’s actually fond of; they all share the same umbrella.

“Is that a bobby pin?” Edward asks. Tom touches it self-consciously.

“Don’t remind me,” he begs. “All I need is a bit of a trim for my fringe, but I don’t dare to touch my hair before my barber appointment for the wedding.”

Edward frowns. He’s well aware that his expression is somewhat obscured by the combination of long locks, muttonchops and a chunky scarf. “You’re supposed to get a haircut for weddings?”

“No,” Tom says, a bit too fast. “Well, only if you feel like it. I always do my own hair, so I thought it’d be a nice change?”

“You don’t want me to get a haircut,” Edward teases, bumping against Tom. He leans closer, umbrella raised, and inspects Edward’s hair with eyes narrowed. 

“Mm. I just think it’d be a shame to touch it. It’s getting so thick and wavy…”

“You know what else is thick?”

“And wavy?”

“No.”

Tom bites his lip, and adjusts Edward’s fringe. “It’s sexy. The chops, too—you won’t touch those, right? I would like to have my time with them on our wedding night.” He kisses Edward’s cheek, whispers into his ear, “The ginger in them does things to me.”

“You like gingers?” Edward asks, contemplating dying his hair for the first time since forever.

“No preference, I just think it looks hot on you.” Tom bites his ear quite casually, then pulls back as if nothing happened.

When he gets like this, Edward...does feel kinda hot. He stands a bit taller when Tom is looking. Feels okay in his skin. Even attractive. He rubs his neck bashfully, glances down at Pony. Pony’s tail is hitting a puddle in a steady rhythm, which explains why Edward’s trouser leg is soaked.

“Is this your real hair colour?” he asks Tom.

“No, I carefully dye individual hairs grey in the morning.”

“Kinda rare, isn’t it, black hair and blue eyes.”

“Are they blue now?”

“Green, actually.” Edward leans in to kiss his eyelids. He thinks he’s kissed Tom everywhere on his face, except his lips. Not a proper kiss, anyway. Tom looks at him like he’s thinking the same. The rain is falling and the air is crisp, winter on the breeze. It’s the sort of day when one ought to stay indoors. Curl up with a loved one. “If you have the time, Craving Coffee’s just on the corner. I could treat you to a chai, and the soup’s good too.”

“God, that sounds amazing,” Tom sighs. “We’ll see? Gotta be at Waterloo by two, and Cornelius is taking his sweet time…”

They frown at the studio in unison. Cornelius should’ve been by said door forty minutes ago.

“Are you taking the Jubilee line? We could speeddate on the underground.”

Tom scoffs, scratches an eyebrow. “What have I come to! You know that I’m better than this, right? If the wedding was over already I’d drag you to the park, lousy weather or not, rent a boat and just go…be with you the whole afternoon.”

“You’d still have to work,” Edward points out, voice soft.

“True, but we’d have had all this time wasted on waiting.”

“You sure he hasn’t called back?”

Tom checks his phone for the hundredth time. “This is quite frustrating,” he says mildly.

The door opens on cue. Cornelius is there, warm and dry with his guitar. “There you are!” he says, delighted.

“Are you kidding me,” Edward mutters.

“Hi, I tried calling?” Tom says, reaching for a handshake.

Cornelius shrugs. His hands are in his pockets, and they remain there. “No phones allowed during practice.”

“Did we miss practice, then?”

“Yeah, I was waiting for you inside—figured something came up.”

“You could’ve—” Edward says, but he’s cut off by Tom’s placating smile.

“But you got the finalized tracklist?”

“Sure, we just went through it. Everything’s great.”

“Would’ve _loved_ to hear it,” Tom says, cuttingly pleasant. 

At least they get a chai out of it. Which they drink on the underground. Risking a fine.

“If they lock me up for murder,” Tom says, staring ahead, “will you come visit?”

“Every day, if they’ll let me.”

“Thank you, dear.”

*

Edward used to think that Tom and him were on top of the wedding game. That they managed to make up for months of procrastination.

He’s wrong.

Keeping in touch with all the vendors is a nightmare. Tom and him need to organise who meets, greets, and pays them, when and where while also trying to compile a ceremony schedule. Some guests never RSVPd. It makes organising transport _quite_ challenging. The ones (the _bunch_ ) who got in touch all have special requests, questions, comments, _suggestions_. Francis’ sisters especially have pointed opinions about tablecloths. William Coningham cannot stand to see his brother married without a single Wigram painting in the room, and has started a feud with the museum to re-open a past exhibition for the occasion. Edward has no idea how he got caught in the middle of that mess, or why it fell on him to email the Hertfordshire Architectural and Archaeological Society and beg for hundred-year old watercolours by some obscure traveller James likes.

Tom has more grey hairs now.

For a distracting period, he lets his stubble grow. Edward witnesses the event in its full glory on a pickup that Tom frames as a heist. He has Edward park in the back of workplace#5 (BENJO BROADCASTING) and sneaks out during his lunch break with a box sealed by ducktape.

“I shouldn’t use the printer for personal things,” he says in a loud whisper as he skips to Edward, hands over the cargo through the open window.

“Starting a life of crime, I see.”

“Bah, don’t even mention it.” Tom looks rather uncomfortable, so Edward doesn’t press on. “Now remember, these are the ceremony program _fliers_ , I’m getting the _brochures_ printed professionally—”

“Legally,” Edward burts, unable to resist. Tom’s gaze skips around, panicked, then he swats Edward’s hand so gently it’s technically a caress. “Sorry,” Edward says, admonished nevertheless. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, besides my moral ruin.”

“I mean, you’re walking a bit funny.”

“Oh?” Tom looks down at himself, as if to check. “I’m wearing a plug.”

Edward’s brain short circuits. “A buttplug?” he asks.

“What other—yeah? Told you I gotta train for your cock.” He boops Edward’s nose, which is just absurd.

“Okay” is all he can say. Tom says his goodbyes. Kisses his cheeks. Bounces back to the office building.

Edward drives home without seeing the road.

Heads straight for the shower.

Turns it cold.

That doesn’t help.

Turns it to a normal temperature.

He ends up sitting on a dildo on the shower’s stone floor, rocking gently while contemplating his love life.

*

Then Tom is in his flat. Again.

They have a reason. An excuse.

Francis’ stagparty is in two hours, and Edward has no idea what to wear. Blanky, the best man and worst organizer, only told Tom to suit up, and that was after Tom had begged for a dresscode.

“I’m not sure about this,” Edward announces as he walks into the living room in his third suit. It fits, but it’s also just. Boring.

Tom looks at him with great interest. He’s on the couch with Pony, and fuck, that’s all Edward wants. His favourite buddies in the world. Tom looks like he was meant to be in Edward’s home, his tweed suit back in rotation, now with a charming bowtie, and he just looks so smart and cuddly Edward wants to climb on the couch and get petted like Pony. (Tom is stroking her very carefully, a lint roller within reach, but there’s so much _love_ in his touch.)

(He wouldn’t need a lint roller after petting Edward.)

(Maybe one sheet.)

“Mm,” Tom says, pursing his lips. He looks Edward over shamelessly, head to toe—Edward curls his toes in his socks, stops slumping. “I mean, you look delicious.”

“It’s bespoke,” Edward mutters, adjusting a cuff that doesn’t need adjusting. “It’s just...black.”

“Black’s a classic,” Tom says. “Wouldn’t encourage it for the wedding itself, but wherever we’re going—I bet Mr. Crozier only owns a black suit, so you won’t stick out.”

Edward fiddles with the buttons of his waistcoat. Maybe he just needs to go all the way. Get a watch chain.

“You sure you don’t want to wear the navy one?” Tom asks, pulling his leg under himself. For a man who holds himself ramrod-straight, Tom has a _way_ of sitting. Well. He does, when it’s just the two of them. When he’s comfortable.

(Edward makes him feel comfortable.)

“My wedding outfit is navy too, don’t wanna be a one trick pony.”

Pony raises an ear.

“Can I see?” Tom chimes.

“Bad luck to see my outfit before the wedding.”

Tom’s eyes glint in a way that makes Edward fiddle some more. He feels oddly bashful, not _nervous_ , just jittery and excited. Tom is _back_ , and now Edward is certain about where they’re at with each other, knows that Tom wants him, and it’s exhilarating. He can’t hide his silly grin.

“I liked the burgundy one,” Tom says, scratching Pony’s head. “Wasn’t he cute in that, Pony?”

Edward wants to paint the entire world that colour if it’d please Tom.

“Bit flashy,” he says. “Don’t wanna be singled out if we go to a nightclub or something.”

“I don’t think we’re going to a nightclub,” Tom says, but he doesn’t sound certain. “Mx. Fitzjames wouldn’t want to miss out—has he told you the story when he first took Mr. Crozier to a drag show?”

“About four times,” Edward says. “Great story.” He looks back at his bedroom over his shoulder, the walk-in wardrobe’s door open. “Well, I only have a charcoal left, but I don’t think that’d fit. Wore it to Neil’s wedding and that’s a few pounds ago.”

“What if you tried a black shirt with this suit?” Tom proposes. His eyes have found Edward’s belt, and stay there.

“Isn’t that a bit...matchy-matchy?”

“Let’s see—I think if you vary the textures, it could look very slick. Maybe go with a V-neck?”

“I haven’t worn a V-neck since I was a baby gay.”

Tom chuckles fondly. Maybe it’s the mood lighting, or the intimacy of the shared place, but he has bedroom eyes. His gaze traces up Edward’s body. “Show me your gayest, please.”

Edward bites his lip, amused. He turns on his heels slowly, walks back into the bedroom. He can _feel_ Tom staring at his arse. “Not sure I’m even out to Francis.”

“Oh! Is that an issue, then?”

“Nah. Most people are just surprised I’m getting laid at all.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?” Edward teases. He wouldn’t normally fish for compliments, but there’s something about Tom. Mostly he just wants to hear this _voice_ , smooth and calming (except when it’s not, when it’s arousing as fuck, like right now). Edward starts undressing, and the knowledge that Tom is just a room away is all he needs to get going.

He shouldn’t get going.

There’s a stagparty happening.

“You look like a man who fucks,” Tom says. It’s been a while the F-word made Edward blush, but, well. Holy hell. From Tom’s mouth, it’s _filthy_.

“Was that your first impression?”

“I thought you were way too handsome to work for the radio. It’s a sin to hide you. Not even a picture anywhere—I tried googling.”

Edward frowns while unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Why?”

“Liked your emails. Wanted to know what you look like.”

“You liked my _emails_?”

“You manage to be more charming in ten-odd words then most Tinder dates in three hours.” There’s some rustling sound as Tom makes himself more comfortable. “It’s a pity Pony’s your profile photo on Facebook, would’ve made my move sooner. No offense, Pony. You’re very cute. Shouldn’t let daddy use you for catfishing.”

Edward smiles to himself. He loves how Tom talks to his dog—his voice doesn’t change at all, which makes the interaction hilariously formal. He locates his old black V-neck and puts it on. It’s in good condition. His clubbing haydays didn’t last long. He tucks it in, shrugs the slim jacket on. Chances a glance in the mirror.

He looks like a man who fucks.

He walks back to the living-room with a self-conscious smile, arms open. “Ta-dah,” he says. Considers a twirl, but that’d be overkill. He’s not one for twirling. Never been.

It’s just Tom, making him feel like he could do anything.

Be silly.

Look his best.

Dance on the streets.

“Closer, please,” Tom says.

Edward wants to crawl to him on his hands and knees. Tom shifts—Edward has never seen him _manspreading_ , but here it is. He looks way too sexy, with that suit and all.

Edward stands in front of him for inspection. Tom touches the flimsy shirt, peeks up at Edward, his eyes wide. “Teddy, love,” he says. “Do you have your nipples pierced?”

Edward touches his chest instinctively. “Shit, should I take them out?”

“Not for the world, I just had no idea…” He grips Edward’s shirt more tightly, tugs at it. The material stretches over the piercings. Tom breaths out through his nose, glances at him. Pleading. “May I see?”

“Got all dolled up just to get shirtless,” Edward jokes. He—doesn’t really know how to go about it. He’s worried about wrinkling the jacket, so he just lifts up his shirt, which would feel very weird, if Tom wasn’t looking at him with so much naked want.

Edward checks himself quickly. The gold glints in the low light. It’s a bit chilly in the room, and it...shows.

Tom takes a shuddering breath, pulls at Edward’s belt. He goes willingly, wherever Tom wants him, which is, apparently, in his lap. Edward is straddling his long thighs, worried, momentarily, that it cannot be comfortable, but Tom is stronger than he looks.

The only one who has an issue with the space Edward is occupying is Pony. She hops off the couch, only to curl up on the carpet in judgement.

Tom holds onto Edward’s waist, inspecting him, then leans in and breathes on one of the piercings. Edward’s skin prickles—Tom’s breath is warm, his touch certain. Edward fiddles with his shirt, not really sure how long to keep it lifted, whether it’s awkward or something, but Tom doesn’t seem to think so, he looks—

He looks incredibly turned on.

He touches the tip of a finger to Edward’s nipple, gentle, makes a lazy circle. “Are they sensitive?”

“Very,” Edward says, choked.

“That’s why you got them pierced, I bet. Do you enjoy people playing with them?”

“Mostly play with them myself. I, ah. Hookups don’t usually have the patience and the guys I date don’t really—appreciate…”

Tom _tsks_. Edward has to still the instinctive thrust of his hips. “They don’t know what they’re missing,” Tom says, rolling it between two fingers. “It’s a gift to yourself, I like that. What do you think of when you touch them?”

“You,” Edward says, voice broken.

Tom hums, cups him in both hands. _Squeezes_. “What do you think of when you think of me?”

“Your eyes, mostly.”

“You’re so sweet. I meant sex.”

“Oh,” Edward says. “I, er. Yes. When I use a dildo?”

“Mm, yeah?”

“I think that it’s your dick. That this is how it’d feel...exactly how it’d feel. And it feels amazing.” He shifts a bit so Tom’s thigh slips between his legs. Tom notices the effort, and presses up against him—tries to, anyway; the angle is no good. He glances at Edward, then tips him over.

Manhandles him to his back.

Edward is lying on his leather couch in a suit, shirt pulled up, horny as fuck, and Tom is climbing atop him. He slides a leg between Edward’s spread thighs, rubs against his hardening dick.

“Do you have a dildo, then?” he asks as he props his chin up, looking down at Edward.

“Several,” Edward pants.

“Harness?” Tom strokes his chest with his left hand, tugs at a piercing.

“No, ah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. We could make it work. Have you ever been with a trans guy?”

“Not yet.”

“Everybody does it differently.” He brings up his hand. Makes sure that Edward is looking as he licks his fingers, touches his chest again. Edward whimpers. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Here’s how I’d do it. We could get a nice firm cock from your drawer, preferably a bigger one. I’d put it into my trousers. Open my fly, hold it there with a hand for you. It’s a bit awkward, but I’ve done it before. Lovely results. I could fuck you like that. Do you want that?”

“Yeah,” Edward pants. Tom pinches him; his eyes roll back. He grinds down on Tom’s leg, moans at the sensation.

It’s so good.

He’s getting topped in his own home.

On his own couch.

Tom is going to top him.

“Do you want it now?” Tom asks. Edward can’t process the question. He’s just raw need. He wants to keep humping Tom’s leg. Wants his hands on his chest. Wants his dick in his arse. Wants to get fucked until he—

Oh.

Comes into his only good suit.

Well. He could always take it off.

Tom didn’t say he wants to get naked, though.

They still need to drive to Francis’ and, well. Wherever they go, Edward would have to go with a gaping arse.

He’d have to concentrate on socialising when all he’d want would be more. More Tom.

God, he’s so hot.

Who would _refuse_ —but it’s not even what they agreed on, it’s just—they’re both way too turned on now, and Edward is used to just getting his dick wet, he never really waited to get off, but he had reasons, _they_ had, and—

“What about our vows?” he grumbles. Tom pushes his knee against his dick, smiling.

“You’re dressed and all. There’s always a loophole.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Edward says, throaty. “I promised to wait for you.”

“I married an honourable man, then,” Tom says, and it’s playful, yes, but there’s so much gentleness in it it makes Edward’s heart ache. Tom doesn’t pull back, which Edward appreciates; he gathers Tom in his arms, who slumps atop him. His torso brushes against both piercings, which makes Edward gasp and thrash. Tom nudges his dick with his knee. “What about it, then, Mr. Little?”

“If we behave it goes away,” Edward mumbles into Tom’s shoulder. “You? Can I get you off?”

“I’m good, thank you.” After a moment of hesitation, Tom adds. “Well. If you could lend me a fresh pair of underwear?”

Edward hugs him tighter, imagines him wearing one of his briefs. The idea makes him fiercely possessive. Tom would look so good in them. Would look _his_. “Sure thing.”

Tom kisses his ear, then whispers into it, “If it is a nightclub?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m game if you want to pull me into a dark corner. If you keep wearing this suit, I might need you to take the edge off.”

*

Edward cannot think of anything else the entire night but pulling Tom into a dark corner.

Which is unfortunate, because said night is spent in Francis’ very well-lit kitchen.

Francis’ flat looks exactly how one would imagine the home of a retired history professor, which Edward has always found comforting. Recently, it’s been besieged by James’ antique finds and bohemian bravado, not to mention the flourish of flowers. The dinner takes place over and around a bouquet of roses that’d make Edward’s mother weep with envy. 

It’s a small dinner party.

Not a party-party as advertised. Not the kind where you can slip to the bathroom to platonically undo the trousers of your fiance, just to see him wear the hell out of _your_ briefs.

Tom is glaring daggers at Blanky as he passes him the parsley sauce. The menu consists of Francis’ famous bacon and cabbage dish, which is as savoury as it is utterly unsexy. The kids get some pumpkin mush.

There are children present.

Jamie is strapped to JC’s chest, only a mop of thin ginger hair visible. Hannah sits on Blanky’s knee and contributes to the conversation with gurgles and groaning.

At least everybody is wearing a suit. That much has met expectations. The kids tapped out of the dress code, of course. Sophia did too, and is in a dazzling jumpsuit that seems to be silk but is turning into fur, thanks to Fagin’s contributions. Pony and Neptune have joined forces to look at Edward’s plate specifically. Probably because he’s the only one who sneaks them bites.

And, like. It’s a lovely night. Just not what he hoped for.

At all.

“A toast,” JC proposes, lifting his glass of apple juice after most plates have been cleared and Tom has been wrestled back from the dishwasher.

“Absolutely not,” Francis says.

“A toast under fifty words?”

“Proceed.”

JC flashes a dashing smile, looks around with gleaming eyes. “To marriage, then,” he says simply, then throws his drink back.

“Aye,” Blanky says. Chugs from a Frozen-themed sippy cup. “You’ll bloody love it, Frank.”

“I don’t think it’ll make a difference,” Francis muses, sloshing the apple juice around in his crystal glass. “We already live together. I see his bastard face first thing every morning.” He scoffs fondly.

“But do you look at him,” Blanky probs, “with the _vindication_ that this idiot promised to stay?”

“You deserve this, Francis,” Sophia says, softer. “Marital bliss suits you already.”

Francis hides his smile in his glass, then, smacking his lips, announces, “A toast!”

“Beg pardon?” JC says, caressing Jamie's head like a Bond villain would a cat.

“You’re a terrible influence. I, er.” Francis' speech falters when he realises everybody is looking at him, but he gathers himself swiftly, voice rising. “I wanted to say a special thanks to the Thomases who made this night possible. Thomas One—thank you for putting this together and inviting all five of my friends.” His gaze turns to Tom. “Thomas Two: thank you for all your help, I’m blessed to have you in my life.”

“Don’t mention it, sir,” Tom says, choked off.

“Edward,” Francis goes on. Edward attempts to turn invisible and fixes his attention on the roses, then the dogs, then the ceiling. “I appreciate your help. Good to see you in person, eh?”

“Lookin’ good,” Blanky injects. Tom slips his hand over Edward’s knee under the table. His eyes are still wet.

“Am I James One, Two or Three?” JC asks.

“Two James Two Clark,” Francis deadpans. “You’re holding Jamie & S, I’m marrying James: London Drift.”

“Where are you taking London Drift to honeymoon?” Sophia asks, helping herself to more juice.

“The James of my Life had the idea that we should just go to the airport and hop on whichever plane leaves next,” Francis says.

Edward can feel Tom tense.

“Sounds like him.”

“Then again, he said he really misses Greece. And China. And India. Malta. Turkey.”

Tom asks, voice shaking slightly, “But you _have_ decided on something, right? Because timing is _essential_ when booking the tickets, and the wedding is in six days—”

“Hear the Arctic is nice this time of the year,” Blanky says.

“It isn’t,” Tom whispers.

“Oh, if you go back to the South Pole, I’m coming with,” JC says. “I’ll hide in the luggage.”

“Tasmania is gorgeous, too,” Sophia adds. “Just drop by any time, totally worth the jetlag.” As if just remembering, she gets a painkiller from her clutch bag.

“Excuse me,” Tom says, squeezing Edward’s hand as he rises to his feet. He heads to the balcony, phone whipped out before he’s through the glass door.

Blanky grumbles in a conspiring whisper, “Will you tell him you already have a place in Tuscany?”

“I’m kinda curious what he comes up with,” Francis confesses, eyes glinting with mischief. “Wedding’s in a week, I don’t think he _could_ book anything.”

“He can,” Edward says, surprised to hear his own voice. “He’s Thomas Jopson. He gets shit done.” He stands up a bit awkwardly, bows to the guests, regrets it immediately (who the fuck _bows_?) and hurries after Tom. Not like a prank will hurt him or anything. He doubts Francis would let him seriously suffer. They’re just pulling his leg, and that’s fair, just—

Well. Edward has always been protective of the things he loves.

Does this mean that he—

There’s a yell from the balcony.

Edward starts running.

The door swings open, and he nearly crushes into it, headfirst and everything. Tom falls into his arms. Edward holds him as they stagger a few steps back, a thousand thoughts rushing through his head. “Are you well?” he manages, but Tom doesn’t look frightened, just confused as hell. He tries to say something as the dinner guests all get up, Francis rushing towards them, clearly worried, which makes _Edward_ worry, but then an Arthurian knight strides in from the balcony and fires a squirtgun into his face, at which point Edward just. Sort of gives up on being surprised. 

“Abduction!” Dundy announces with theatrical flair, rolling his accent. He steps up to Francis, who’s staring at him, mouth agape. “If I may steal you away, kind sir?”

“I declare this pity party officially crashed,” James announces as he flaunts in, donning full Roman armour, complete with helmet, spear _and_ a shield.

Francis scowls at him, even as he’s letting his hands get tied by rope which has clearly been purchased in a sexshop. “Did you climb our balcony?”

“Yes.”

“We have a front door.”

“I’m aware,” James grins, then spins to Edward and Tom, who are still clutching each other. “Follow by your own free will and you shall not be harmed,” James says.

There's a pause.

“Why are you dressed as a gladiator?” Edward asks, because it’s the only thing he can think to say.

James makes his skirt twirl. “It’s Britannica, bitch.”

*

James’ jackalope party is...quite something. They are led to an enormous complex of tents by torchlight where a sign proclaims WELCOME TO CARNIVALE. Edward half-expects some weird initiation ceremony, but they’re merely told to put on costumes before entering. There’s a long table with various items to choose from; Edward is deciding between a paper bag and a Stetson hat when Tom taps his shoulder.

“Nya,” he proclaims, tone serious. Velvet cat ears sit perched on top of his head: in the firelight, they seem the exact shade of his hair.

Edward becomes unable to focus on anything else.

He follows James and the lot in a daze, fiddling with Pony’s leash until Tom takes hold of his hand.

It’s just like the day at the swings. When Tom told him he was the cat for Edward’s puppy. That he wanted to be his, wanted to keep him. Tom as a cat makes so much sense. Cats are careful and smart and elegant. Tom makes his way through the crowd with the ease of a feline. At one point, they put down their coats, so Tom’s tweed suit is on display again, which makes the costume even cuter.

There’s sound, some chamber music, jolly and lively, and the noise of about a hundred people chatting, laughing, cheering; Francis grumbles distinctively, but there’s humour in it. Soon, they lose him, swept aside by a sack race. There are people bobbing for apples, popping balloons, playing tug of war. Edward spots John in angel wings painting portraits (since _when_ does James know him?), Georgie engaged in a dance-off atop a table (who let him?) and even Sol fencing with Bill and Tommy. Sol catches his gaze across the tent, tips his chin at Tom and says something Edward cannot hear, eyebrows wiggling.

“Look, a puppy den!” Tom gasps, leading him along. Edward is so happy to follow, to have guidance before all this wonderful cacophony would overwhelm him. There are several dogs in attendance, which makes him feel instantly better. Dr. Goodsir and Silna sit on the ground, floofballs of all sizes climbing all over them.

“This is Heaven,” Goodsir says, beaming. Silna is focused on throwing balls with athletic precision. Pony pulls on the leash, attempting to chase after a ball whooshing past. Edward pulls her back by instinct. Something nudges against his elbow. It’s Silna’s dog, thankfully muzzled. Edward lets him smell Pony, who’s deemed worthy company. 

“Do you want to stay and make friends?” he asks Pony. Her tail is wagging, but her little face is uncertain.

“We can keep an eye on her,” Dr. Goodsir offers. “It's no problem.” 

Edward looks back at the crowd in the tent, and makes the call to let Pony go.

It doesn’t feel as hard as it usually does. There’s no weight in his stomach as he unclips the leash, his heart is not thudding as he watches her trot away. He reasons that Dr. Goodsir is a vet, and Silna is a dog trainer,that’s why he feels Pony will be safe with them; but he knows it has to do with Tom. Tom won’t mind if Edward keeps coming back to the den to check on her. Tom will understand if he calls it a day at the first sign of Pony’s discomfort. Tom would never make him feel weird about being so fucking scared and anxious all the time.

It’s fine.

He keeps checking back over his shoulder, keeping Pony in his line of sight, but when Tom guides him along, he can follow.

He could follow him anywhere.

Even to a carousel.

Edward watches it go around and around, dazed. The music swells.

“Well, I never,” Tom says.

“How did he organize it?”

“Through Instagram, apparently.” Tom leans against his shoulder with a heavy sigh. “Maybe I should’ve let them have their chaotic wedding,” he says mournfully. “This is great. Have you _seen_ the potluck tent? Diggle’s muffins are lost in the sheer _volume_ of food.”

“You can’t crowdsource a wedding,” Edward says, then for fairness’ sake adds, “I think. They needed you.”

“Us,” Tom adds gently. Edward can feel himself flushing.

“Francis wouldn’t have thanked you if he wasn’t grateful,” he says as he pulls Tom into a clumsy half-hug. He attempts to kiss one of the cat ears, but the hat’s brim is in the way.

“I suppose,” Tom allows. Kisses his neck, then whispers against his wet skin. “Take me for a ride, cowboy?”

It takes Edward a moment to process that the carousel has stopped. He chooses a semi-realistic percheron (the glitter is...what it is), and helps Tom into the saddle. He sits behind him, holding his hips. A group of people stand around (he recognises Dr. Stanley, supervising his daughter on a unicorn and Graham snapping pictures of Dundy doing a dance number atop a Cleveland bay). He feels some kind of way of being seen with Tom. There’s an intoxicating thrill to it. He’s proud to show him off. It felt nice enough to be mistaken for a wedded couple, but this is next level. Tom is his boyfriend. Will be, officially, in a couple of days.

He vows to take him to places. Tom would be wasted on Netflix and chill. People must see him. See him laugh, like he laughs when the carousel starts with a surprisingly intense jolt; see him cuddle up to Edward, whisper into his ear, a smile still on his lips, _are you okay_? Edward tugs him even closer as the horse rises and lowers. “Never better,” he whispers, rubbing his chest over Tom’s back, and it’s their own little secret why that makes Tom gasp.

*

“Russian philosopher Mikhail Bakhtin proposed four distinguishing features of the carnival,” Tom says around a mouthful of caramelized apple he won in a darts contest. “First, familiar interaction between people regardless of rank; second, eccentric behaviour…”

“James got that down,” Edward mumbles. James is currently standing half-naked on the music stage, letting his guests write congratulations on his skin.

“Third, carnivalistic _mésalliances_ , where opposites unite—heaven and hell, high and low—”

“Me and you.”

“I don’t think we’re opposites; do you?” Tom says softly. They’re sitting atop a table, Tom spawled in Edward’s lap like a proper cat.

“Calm, nervous.”

“I don’t think I’m calm,” Tom argues in his soothing voice, then takes another bite from his apple. “I just try to keep it together. You help me keep it together.”

“What’s the fourth characteristic of carnivale?” Edward asks to deflect from the compliment. Tom grins at him, his cheeks stuffed with apple.

“Profanation. Anything earthly, _bodily…_ ”

“Oh, shit,” Edward grins at him. “Should we turn this place into an orgy?”

“Wouldn’t be opposed.” Tom offers him the rest of the apple. Edward takes it, chews on it carefully. It’s ripe and sweet, the caramel tacky. He feels like he never had an apple this good, because it’s from Tom. He glances down at him, Tom in his lap, Tom glowing, his clever, cheeky, fussy Tom. He scratches his chin, watches his pupils get darker.

“I love you, kitten,” he says, and it’s so easy to say. It’s not frightening. This is just how he feels.

“I love you too,” Tom says. “Very much so.”

Edward grins and nods.

He knew.

*

Edward hasn’t considered dancing in public since surviving prom. Even at gay clubs, his signature move was to just sit at the bar. Look depressed but, like, fuckable.

Now he couldn’t care less how he looks. It’s enough that Tom’s eyes are on him. The band is playing nostalgic melodies, and all he has to do is sway to the music while holding Tom. The dancefloor is teeming, James and Francis at the centre of it. Nobody is going to judge Edward’s sense of rhythm, or lack of thereof without a metronome. Tom is a better dancer than him, but doesn’t upstage him, content to just turn around in slow circles. Grind a little. His face is buried in Edward’s neck, and he’s nibbling at it steadily.

He might want something.

Edward leads him off the dancefloor when the next song comes on. Tom clings to his arm, and when they step outside the tent, he’s on him within a moment, touching, grasping.

It’s cold out, but Edward hardly feels it. He grabs two handfuls of Tom’s arse in the dark, shoves a thigh between his legs. Tom gasps, rubs against him in earnest. His eyes are hooded, hair fallen out of place.

The cat ears make the entire thing feel incredibly kinky.

“Did you know,” Tom pants, “that you’re the hottest man in that tent?”

“If that’s true, you chose well,” Edward says, distracted by the rise and fall of Tom’s torso, how gracefully he arches his back. The music can still be heard; this is a dance.

“Want to keep choosing you,” Tom says. “Want to say yes, yes, _yes_ …”

“Can you sleep over tonight?”

“No.”

They both laugh. Tom pushes his face into Edward’s throat, bites at the skin exposed by the V-neck.

They should’ve put on coats.

Not like they’re not keeping warm.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says between gasps, “I still have editing to get done today and I have an early morning for wedding stuff—”

“Don’t apologise,” Edward says, hands roaming over Tom’s trembling back. “I know, I know…”

“Jesus, Teddy…” Tom’s rhythm picks up speed, fucking Edward’s thigh with abandon, but he’s still so fucking _refined_ , face going slack in the moonlight, lips parting for a deep moan.

Edward pulls him closer by his arse, moving him up and down the length of his thigh to help him ride out his orgasm. “Does this count?” he whispers when the music ends and Tom trembles one last time.

“No, it’s, ah, Carnivale. The rules are upside down, we’re being very virtuous.”

Edward huffs a laugh, kisses his nose.

Their eyes meet, Tom’s gaze still hazy, his cheeks beautifully flushed, and his lips—

His lips taste divine.

Edward nearly loses his hat when he kisses him, but Tom catches it. He holds it to Edward’s nape as he licks into his mouth. He tastes like apples. Like summer. Edward can’t resist picking him up, Tom’s legs wrapped around his waist as he kisses him back, kisses him again, and again. Kissing is the only thing Tom’s not elegant about: his nose keeps bumping against Edward’s, and there’s just a lot of teeth and spit and tongue, but it’s incredibly charming, not to mention fucking sexy, how hungry he is for Edward, even after he just made him come.

(Possibly _because_ he just made him come.)

There are cheers from the tent, and for a moment, Edward thinks it’s for them.

Tom pulls back, eyes round. “It’s midnight,” he whispers. Puffs of air escape his wet lips, the perfect curve of them.

“ _May auld acquaintance be forgot_ ,” Edward hums, swoons in for another kiss. Tom grants it, but then he untangles himself, just to hug Edward’s neck. 

“It’s your birthday,” he says, bumping his forehead to Edward’s.

“Technically,” Edward says, “I was born at...three pm, I think.”

“Happy birthday,” Tom says, insistently cheery. Edward feels the nudge of his knee against his groin a moment later. He flashes Tom a bashful grin and kisses him again, rubbing his dick over the offered leg.

Already, it's the best birthday he’s ever had.

He’s nearly thirty-five and he’s dry-humping a stunning man behind a tent, making out like they invented the act, and the music is back, an aria of all things, one of the guests singing.

Tom swallows Edward's moans, then returns to his neck, determined to leave a mark there, and Edward wants that, wants that more than anything, to carry something he got from Tom. He opens his trousers clumsily, just so he can stop worrying about coming into them, and it seems like a good idea until Tom gets him in hand and he immediately spends.

Tom is utterly delighted.

“I swear,” Edward pants, “on our wedding night, I’ll perform better, I can last if I put my mind to it or if there’s a cockring…”

Tom hushes him gently. Puts a finger coated in come against his lips. Edward falls silent and kisses him.

They’re still kissing when the snow starts falling.

comissioned fanart by [@kahootqueen69](https://kahootqueen69.tumblr.com/post/633587634921521152/kahootqueen69-commission-for-the-lovely#notes) 💗

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by the ridiculously talented [@bastaerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd): “modern au, fake proposal(s?) in order to get free dessert at restaurants or something of that order, starting facetiously but ending up either entirely serious or more serious than expected.” I went with the angle that Joplittle aren’t even dating at the start for maximum! yearning!
> 
> Content warnings:  
> \- **Transphobia** briefly rears up its ugly head two times. To skip the first indicent (Tom is refused service), stop reading at “Wonder what her fucking issue is” and pick up at “Neither of them move to walk.” To skip the second (Tom’s academic career affected by TERFs), stop reading at “Having a history degree.” and pick up at “Now my former hobby is my job.”  
> \- Canon typical **implied alcoholism** in the past (Francis)  
> \- detailed discussion of Sarah Jopson's prescription **drug addiction,** which mainly follows the canonical storyline. To skip this, stop reading at “Are your parents divorced?” and pick up after the asterisk; in the interim, Tom tells his family's history to Edward, and starts crying, feeling helpless and frustrated; Edward hugs and comforts him.  
> \- Edward is dealing with a lot of **anxiety** and shame connected to difficulty processing stress, unemployment and social interactions  
> \- Minor allusions to petplay in part two and three
> 
> Credit where credit is due: the titles of The Terror Podcast episodes were lifted directly from E. Royston Pike’s (ed) “Golden Times: Human Documents of the Victorian Age.”
> 
> A million thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for betaing and cheerleading! 💗
> 
> For every [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/630785135249375232/happily-ever-before-a-joplittle-fall-exchange) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1311680401920995330), Pony is getting a treat 🐶🦴


	3. Chapter 3

**Thomas Jopson** : How many birthday wishes have you got?

 **Edward Little** : 30 and counting

 **Thomas Jopson** : Oh dear!

 **Thomas Jopson** : Do you want me to help reply to them?

 **Edward Little** : yes please

 **Thomas Jopson** : How about~~

 **Thomas Jopson** : For every five reply you write, I remove one item of clothing

 **Thomas Jopson** : And send photographic evidence? 👼

 **Edward Little** : socks dont count and i just rpelied to 10

*

Edward is sitting on the kitchen counter, phone pressed to his ear. If phones still had cables, he’d be twirling it around his fingers. Tom has the loveliest voice, and it’s wonderful to hear first thing in the morning.

(It’s ten, so fuck knows if that’s still morning. But he’s up, and that’s what matters. Fed Pony, fed himself, took her down to the park at the corner. Now he’s at leisure to listen to his favourite person complain about someone else’s wedding.)

“James hasn’t written his vows yet,” Tom says through considerable background noise. He’s commuting again. Once they’re properly together (four more days, _four_ ) Edward will offer to give him a lift whenever he fancies. Driving in London is...ambitious, but they could be stuck in traffic together, and that’s what matters.

“He’s a very good public speaker,” Edward says. “I think he can manage without a script, don’t worry.”

“Well, that’s what he thinks too,” Tom says, adorably uppity (fuck, Edward misses him). “An untimed speech is the worst enemy of a good schedule; if he goes over thirty, I’ll sush him at his own wedding, watch me.”

“You would,” Edward says dreamily. He wants to kiss Tom again. Touch him, be touched. Share pleasure. Have him there in his kitchen, watch the snowfall together. It’s not cold enough; everything immediately melts; but it’s so pretty to look at, and it feels important that it snowed when they first kissed. Now he’ll always think of Tom when it snows. Come what may, thinking of Tom will make him happy. He’s just glad that he exists, that he got to know him. Even if just briefly.

But, well.

He won’t let it melt.

He’ll work so they can see many more winters together.

*

“Mr. Gambier just cancelled,” Tom says over the speaker.

Edward is in the shower with Pony, trying to get her clean and shiny for the big day. He unmuted his phone for Tom a long time ago. Heard it ring, picked it up. He’s amazed at himself, even though he’s butt naked with a dog in the walk-in shower and he probably shouldn’t be using dog shampoo, but it helps Pony get used to the scent. He thinks.

“James’ dad?” he asks back when the name registers.

“I want to chew glass.”

“Don’t chew glass, talk to me.”

“I just want it to go well,” Tom says, voice small.

“It will,” Edward says, wiping his hand on a towel to get the phone, hold it close as if he were speaking into Tom’s ear softly, voice low and steady. “You made sure it’s going to be perfect. But no plan is foolproof, and he’s a fool. Missing out on Diggle’s cake!”

Tom laughs weakly. Edward catches sight of himself in the mirror, soaked and flushed, dripping water everywhere like an idiot, but he’s smiling, because he can’t help it.

“He’ll curse the day he skipped witnessing Thomas Jopson at the glory of his organisational skills.”

“Now you’re overdoing it,” Tom chides with a scoff.

Edward’s grin widens, then forces his tone to be appropriately solemn. “How is James taking it?”

“Not sure, wanted to talk to you before calling him; I know they were never close, God, he didn’t even _raise him_ , but still, he was so happy when I managed to get hold of him…I know I’d like _my_ dad to be at our wedding.”

Edward rubs his nape shyly, as if Tom could see him.

 _Our wedding_.

*

The big day arrives with a surprising lack of fanfare. Edward wakes up to his alarm, texts Tom, and thus it begins. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop as he washes his face, but the morning feels oddly normal even at double speed. There’s a nudging anxiety that he’s forgetting something, but he’s just. Forgetting to worry, basically. Because it doesn’t really feel real.

Eight fucking months in the making, and his coffee tastes just the same.

*

He goes to pick up Tom, and he’s five minutes late, but Tom is already waiting for him on the street. He’s wrapped in a peacoat, scarf pulled up to function as a muffler; he’s holding a suit bag in his leather-gloved hand, and hops a bit on his feet. It’s cold today, yet Edward feels nothing but warmth as he pulls Tom’s scarf down and kisses him. It’s quick and brief, just for greeting, and they’re already in the car by the time Edward realises that he did it, finally, kissed Tom in the gate where he’d wanted to kiss him so fucking badly. He grins to himself, puts the car into gear.

“I haven’t slept,” Tom tells him, his tone chirpy, which implies he’s extremely caffeinated. “Sent you the final coordinates, I think I figured out the best pickup route at like, 3 am, and took the weather reports into account, no snow in London but plenty at Hertfordshire, because that’s our luck, isn’t it, I mean it’s picturesque but I didn’t expect snow in December, that’s not really a thing that happens anymore, is that a bow?”

Edward blinks, glances at Pony in the rearview mirror. She’s wearing a collar with a massive navy bow on the back which Edward got her for the occasion. “It is.”

“Oh my God, she’s so cute.” Tom attempts to reach back and pet her, but can’t bridge the distance. “You’re very pretty, Pony,” he says seriously. 

“One of us has to be,” Edward says. It’s intended as a joke, but still earns him a squeeze on his knee.

“She got it from her daddy,” Tom says, hand sliding higher.

Edward starts having ideas about Tom and him, abandoned car parks and the comfort of his back seat, but they’re on a schedule.

* 

The car is soon filled with husbridematemaids (the collective term _Team James_ is decided upon for simplicity), which includes but is not limited to his sister-in-law Bessie, dear friend and drag queen Eddie Charlewood, and ten-year-old goddaughter Alice Fitzjames Charlewood.

Those are names Edward will forget in five minutes, except for the lingering pity he feels for...Alice? Amelia? Agnes? for her middle name.

“I’ll ask you to get hair and makeup done first thing, and look around after,” Tom explains, “but get back by 10:45 when the photographer arrives. I’ll be handling decorations, but if you have any question—”

“Can I wear makeup?” Alice interrupts, raising her hand as an afterthought. (It was Alice, wasn’t it?)

“I didn’t schedule for it,” Tom says, “but, ah—if Dad says it’s okay?”

“Dad says it’s okay,” Eddie agrees. (Or did he prefer Ed? Ned? Ted?)

“I could help,” Edward volunteers.

“Can you do makeup?” Probably-Alice asks, apparently suspicious of strangers, which Edward always appreciates. He can relate.

“Maybe not as well as your dad,” he says, “but I have a couple of sisters and nieces. So if you like glitter…”

“I like glitter,” Alice says quietly.

“Glitter it is,” Edward nods.

“Now I want glitter too,” Bessie (Betty?) sighs. Edward catches Tom’s gaze, who looks at him like he just saved the day.

*

Turns out that doing a ten-year-old’s mermaid makeup while she’s simultaneously getting her hair done by Bessie is a bit of a challenge. Edward’s primary objective is to avoid eye contact with everybody, including James, because he has no idea _when_ he’s supposed to congratulate him, or what to say. It helps that Pony is there, and that Alice likes dogs, and that Edward likes kids who like dogs. (He’s never met a child who resented puppies.)

Tom’s absence...is felt. He’s somewhere in the museum, which should be reassuring enough, but he’s not in this cramped storage place they nominated as a beauty salon, which is getting filled with more and more members of Team James. If Tom were here, it’d be easier to ignore the comings-and-goings of everybody, the shouted questions about whether lipstick is anachronistic, who’s seen the bobby pins and who the fuck invented nylon stockings.

It’s okay. Edward can stand on his own feet. (Sit on his own arse atop a trunk he’s hoping is not a historical find.)

He still doesn’t feel like the wedding is actually happening.

“Done,” he says, applying the last crystal. He hands his phone to Alice to check out the results (they’re suffering a mirror shortage); she grins, so Edward hopes the result is satisfactory.

“I’m pretty!” she says.

“You’re gorgeous, sweetie!” her dad shouts from the other end of the room.

Alice gives the phone back to Edward and notes, “You have glitter in your fur.”

*

Edward still has glitter in his muttonchops when he’s setting up the sound system. He hopes most of it will come out by the time he puts on his costume. He’s renting it, and isn’t sure if glitter counts as damage.

For now, his worry is that the sound system is kind of shit. The ceremony will take place in St Alban’s assembly room, which has ceilings high enough for _multiple_ crystal chandeliers and the acoustics are amazing, but the builders from the 1830s didn’t account for microphones for some reason.

He keeps glancing out of the massive panelled windows. The photographer has arrived, and Tom is dashing about to organise Team Francis and James photos on the building’s stairs. He’s in his element, and it’s magnificent to watch even without sound.

Fuck audio anyway.

Maybe they should just have a completely silent wedding.

“Test,” he says into the microphone, and the room echoes and roars it back. He glances at Pony for advice, but she’s distracted by the fireplace.

Typical.

*

“Can you help me get the flowers, please?” Tom asks, spooking him so much Edward hits his head on the table. He’s crouched under it on his hands and knees, which means that Tom is addressing his arse.

“‘Course,” he mumbles, climbs out. He looks at Tom from the ground, and keeps looking. He changed into his costume, which involves a soft cap, neat neckerchief, striped shirt, braces visible under the open wool jacket. He has his hands in his pockets with all the swagger of a blue collar Victorian.

Edward cannot help a low whistle. “I’ll be way overdressed,” he says.

“Oh, everybody will be,” Tom says easily. “We tend to forget people who weren’t part of the upper class. It’s fun to be fancy, but it gives one a skewed idea of history.”

“Francis will really appreciate your accuracy.” Edward looks him over once again. “ _I_ appreciate the hotness.”

Tom winks at him. “Flowers,” he whispers.

Edward is tempted to climb to him on his hands and knees, but he can tell that Tom’s in a worried hurry. He whistles for Pony and dusts himself off on the way, not like he has to worry about his cargo pants getting dirty—that’s kinda the point of work clothes. His boots squeak on the marble floor and he must look a bit of a mess in his old UCL hoodie, but Tom seems not to mind, so Edward doesn’t give a fuck what anybody else thinks.

Until they meet Henry Bridgens by his van and he remembers it’s supposed to be their pretend-wedding.

Henry is nice enough not to say anything.

Henry is _super_ nice, so it feels awful to lie to him.

“I think I saw Fitzjames in a dress?” he proposes, and it doesn’t even sound accusing, just impressed. (It _is_ a nice dress.)

“Double wedding,” Edward murmurs while taking a crate from him. Tom is looking at him like he just managed a moon landing.

“It is a double wedding,” he tells Henry. His tone is surprisingly convincing. “Flower duty fell on our shoulders, Mx. Fitzjames arranged the band, et cetera.”

 _If only_ , Edward thinks.

“Aw, how lovely!” Henry says, genuinely charmed. How can they bamboozle someone so innocent and small?

“Speaking of which,” Tom says casually, “have you by any chance bumped into another van on your way here, driven by a ginger man with a beard, shortish, bit...rodent-like, possibly with instruments and such?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Henry looks around the car park as if to check.

“Cornelius is missing?” Edward asks with a frown.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Tom says, then adds, “so I’m told.”

“He should be here any minute,” Henry consoles him. “The traffic’s very good, despite the snow.”

Tom gives him a smile that’s very, very taut.

Goddamnit. Cornelius should’ve been here as soon as the sound system was ready to test.

“Are you sure you want to carry that?” Henry asks, pointing at the crates Edward grabbed. “I can manage on my own, just show me the way. You must be super busy!”

“It’s the least we can do,” Edward mumbles.

*

They manage to catch a moment together while Henry turns the venue into a winter wonderland. They’re sitting by the empty bar, Tom obsessively checking the supply.

“It’s supposed to be a sober wedding,” he says, “why am I seeing bottles on display?”

“Those are probably filled with tinted water,” Edward says. “Decoration, whatever.”

“Still a trigger.”

“I’ll have them removed.”

“It’s fine, I can…” Tom sighs, runs a hand over his face. Edward aches with sympathy. He wishes he could do more than rub Tom’s shoulder, although he seems to appreciate it. He glances at Edward with a weak smile visible through his fingers. “I don’t think I’ll be any good tonight,” he confesses.

“That’s okay,” Edward says.

“But I want to be. I missed you so much and I don’t even know when we can get our stuff to the hotel, let alone close the door and be alone.”

“If you just wanna cuddle tonight, I’m game.”

“Don’t give up on me yet.”

“I’ll pop over with the luggage as soon as I can, have everything arranged for sleep and-or sex.”

“I don’t want to overtax you just because I’m a bit knackered.”

“Fatigued, you mean.”

Tom scoffs, waves it away. Reaches to stroke Pony, who’s lying in Edward’s lap. His hair hangs into his face, and he doesn’t even reach to adjust it, so Edward does it for him. Caresses his face, maps out the bruised shadows under his eyes with his thumb. “If you walked out of here now,” he says softly, “you’ve already done enough.”

Tom meets his gaze, looks away. “If I walked out of here now, we’d have a silent wedding with no band, and nobody to get the cake or welcome the guests.”

“Let me take care of that,” Edward says. He kisses Tom briefly, murmurs against his lips, “That day by the swings you told me you could nap anywhere. Prove it.”

“That’s not fair,” Tom says with no heat. “I can’t resist a dare.”

“I know, kitten.”

“You forget, however, that the moment I close my eyes, everything falls apart.”

Edward hums, non-committal. He’s starting to suspect he’s not the only one with anxiety in this relationship. Tom has such a peculiar way of expressing it.

But Edward is an expert on anxiety.

He grounds Tom with a kiss on his eyelids.

Things don’t fall apart.

“Remember what Francis said at the stag party?” he says, voice no more than a deep rumble. Tom’s fingers curl into Pony’s fur. “How being married wouldn’t make a difference?”

“Yeah?”

“And it does, but. That’s marriage. This is just the wedding. A celebration of their love. And they are very much in love. You couldn’t break that, even if you tried. No missing band will change...you know. Them being soulmates and all.” He follows the line of Tom’s cheekbones, sinks his hands into his hair. Breathes deeply, and Tom follows his rhythm.

“You’re right,” he admits after a deep exhale.

“Bask in it,” Edward says. “I rarely am.”

Tom chuckles. Edward kisses his dimples, one after the other. “If I recall the schedule,” he says, “nobody will be here for the next forty minutes. I’ll close the door on you and come fetch you, yeah? So you just rest.” 

“Will you sing me to sleep?” Tom teases.

Edward keeps caressing his nape, and starts humming _Wouldn’t It Be Nice_ just to see Tom smile again.

*

Edward paces the cool hallway, zoned out, Tom’s phone heavy in his pocket like lead.

He has absolutely no fucking idea where to get a band.

He’s trying not to freak out, because he promised to get a handle on things, but bloody hell.

Fucking Cornelius.

Fucking wanker.

He holds Pony against his chest, which helps, but like. She’s a service dog, she’s been trained to detect his panic attacks, but this is not that (yet) and she can’t give him therapy (he should go back to therapy) or Xanax (he should go back to therapy to get the medication he needs, which made life easier, which made him able to have a job) but holding her still feels nice so he holds her.

“Ah, Edward,” Francis calls. Edward blinks. He hasn’t realised he returned to the assembly room. Everything is decked in evergreen now, and consequently it smells like a pine forest.

Pine forests are good for the nerves.

When it’s over, he’ll take Tom to a pine forest.

In the middle of winter.

Unless he’d rather stay indoors, which is good too.

Francis and James are admiring some paintings on the walls. The fucking Wigrams. 

“You look like hell,” Francis says bluntly. “Drink my coffee.”

Edward knows he has no choice but to take it. He drinks it obediently, his brain focused on the heat and the bitter taste for a blessed moment. Francis watches him with his hands folded behind his back; he’s in some sort of blue uniform with gold epaulettes. James’ gown is a high-collared, tightly buttoned ruffle-and-lace affair with all-encompassing puffy sleeves, complete with a bonnet and veil.

“Well, you two look good,” Edward says several beats too late. “Rather fancy.”

“It’s our wedding,” Francis deadpans.

“In case it escaped your notice,” James joins in.

“That’s why he’s in a wedding gown.”

“That’s why I’m in a wedding gown.”

“Your wedding has no band,” Edward says, nearly crumpling Francis’ cup when the confession stumbles out. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t Tom’s fault. I’m to blame alone. We’ve got scammed and I let it happen.”

“Nobody’s to blame,” Francis dismisses it.

“Scammed?” James asks, eyes lighting up. (If Edward knew he wanted to get scammed so badly, he’d have messed up more things.)

“They sent us a fake demo, made sure we missed the rehearsal, got the money, didn’t bother to show up.”

“Amazing,” James says.

Francis shrugs it off. “I’m sure we can pull up something on a laptop. Vangelis’ entire career relies on last minute wedding music.”

Edward imagines the look on Tom’s face if they played Vangelis from a laptop. The tears he’d cry. He hands back Francis the cup (empty, crumpled), adjusts Pony’s weight and turns to James.

“You have one million friends here,” he says tonelessly.

“Just about a hundred.”

“Any of them can sing?”

James looks at Francis, then back to Edward, thrilled. “Johnny Morfin. We must have Johnny Morfin sing!”

“Make sure he knows the lyrics,” Francis grumbles, but adds, “lovely voice.”

“Chuck Best too, he’s the best, and John Weekes and George Chambers! Just don’t let Dundy get wind of it, he’s abysmal, and Bessie’s only any good if she’s very, _very_ drunk.”

Edward salutes (God, that’s worse than bowing, what’s _up with him today_ ) and rushes to assemble a choir.

*

Turns out it’s much easier to do shit when someone tells you what to do exactly and you don’t have to be creative. Music: sorted. Cake: delivered. Venue: decorated fully. Vendors: paid. Bottles: will be removed (pending). He goes over to the hotel to drop off the luggage. Turns out Tom booked the same room they had last time, which makes Edward feel all kinds of sappy things. He should be welcoming the guests at the reception, help them check in then get to the venue, but he takes a moment to just stand there after unpacking his own shit. White and blue surround him like memories. There’s only one bed still. They’ll share it. He wonders if Tom packed the same pyjamas, or something else, or if he’ll sleep naked, tucked safely in Edward’s arms. He allows himself a moment to appreciate that mental image, then takes Pony to do their job.

Francis’ sisters have converged in the lobby. They packed their own food, and are demanding a microwave. There are friends and old schoolmates and some of Francis’ former students and James’ present admirers, and if Tom was here, he’d know their names, but he deserves to rest. His phone rings every so often in Edward’s pocket, and he has to take the call, which is unfortunate, even though it’s mostly just people confused by Luton airport.

He’s starting to get overwhelmed again when both of James’ mothers emerge. They couldn’t be more different (short and tall, black and blond, pensive and talkative) but they share the singular purpose to take matters in their hands and relieve Edward of his duties. He slips away silently, changes into his costume—navy frock coat matching Pony’s bow, cream waistcoat and trousers, silk ascot, tophat and a gold watch chain he couldn’t resist. He creeps back to the venue looking pretty dandy. He won’t be able to do the seating alone, so he has an excuse to wake Tom.

He feels like he should be carrying a bouquet as he walks down the hallway. He opens the door as softly as he can, tiptoes through the bridge of sunlight. He expected to find Tom slumped in a chair (Edward had one of his best sleeps sitting), but he elected to knock himself out atop the bar. He’s shed his jacket and holds his hands like Count Dracula, waiting to be brought back to life with a chaste kiss.

(Edward may be mixing his fairytales.)

Pony ruins his plans by dashing forward, the thumping of her feet reminiscent to the sound of a wildebeest stampede. Tom stirs as she gets to her hindlegs, woofing once and tail wagging in greeting. He reaches for her sleepily, scratching her ear.

“Did I miss ‘e wedding?” he mumbles.

“It was beautiful,” Edward says, finally closing the distance.

“Not funny,” Tom murmurs as he slumps against him, yawning. Edward kisses the top of his head, inhales his scent. Clean and cold like mountain air, but Tom is warm in his arms, his weight an anchor. Edward sways a bit on his feet, rocking him, and Tom pulls away, but only to look at him, still clinging.

“Bloody ‘ell Teddy, warn a man, you’re way too ‘andsome.”

“No longer a pumpkin,” Edward jokes shyly. “I’m your lavish carriage.”

“Aw I see’s a prince,” Tom says. Edward swoons in for a kiss, but Tom holds up a finger. Gets a tin from his pocket, takes a mint. Nods encouragingly.

Edward would kiss him if he tasted like tomato, and he really hates tomatoes.

Tom sits up while they make out and Edward finds his place between his knees, Pony by his heel, and it’s so perfect they should stay like this forever.

Too bad they have a wedding to attend.

Edward wants to carry Tom there in his arms. Frame his path with roses. Whatever.

“The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain,” Tom whispers to himself as he puts his jacket back, adjusts his cap. “In Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly ever happen.”

Edward bites down a charmed smile, pressing his fist to his lips to collect himself. “Are you ready?” he asks, voice breaking a bit with emotion.

“Been readying myself for eight months, still not ready.” Tom sighs, dusts himself down. “I’ll cry like a baby.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Edward deadpans.

Tom squints at him, mock-offended, and that’s it. Edward has to kiss him again, brief, desperate.

*

Tom does cry at the ceremony.

Weeps his entire way through it. As soon as the processional begins, he’s in tears. He’s very subtle about it, but Edward keeps holding his hand anyway, massaging calming circles into his palm.

Francis and James are grinning at each other through the readings and the vows, as if the whole shebang is a private joke of sorts. Rings are exchanged, and Edward thinks that this is it, this is what they worked for all these months, and feels his eyes well up and lips wobble.

Tom is a beautiful mess.

James and Francis are pronounced wedded, and the voice of the impromptu choir soars as they lock lips. It’s a chaste kiss.

Then it isn’t.

Edward is looking at Pony by his feet, who fell asleep.

James picks up Francis for the recessional, which is rather impressive, because Edward has always thought of Francis as a stubborn, immovable goat who’d rather go rigid and fall to his side than be budged, but well. He’s not the one marrying the man. Not the one to make him melt.

Francis is hiding his face in his palm when James starts running with a triumphant _hip-hip-hooray_ , his skirt and veil flowing after him, and the entire recessional turns into a chase. Then Silna’s dog joins in.

There’s some minor panic.

Edward is staring after them (he’s never seen a dog move like that, there’s a strange set to his head—) then feels Tom tug at his sleeve. He turns to him, catches him smirking.

“I pronounce us boyfriends,” Tom says.

Edward’s eyes go wide and his heart seizes up with joy he wasn’t designed for. He grins, teeth and everything, until his face hurts; grabs Tom’s shoulders, pulls him into his arms.

Starts to cry.

*

“We’ve worked for this,” Tom says, cranberry juice in hand, convincingly red in a wine glass.

“It tastes okay,” Edward admits.

“For this.” Tom tips his glass at the room at large. Edward looks around, and nearly makes a comment on the tasteful architecture, then he gets what Tom means. The guests stand around in small groups, some queuing up to chat with the married couple. Everybody looks straight out of a period drama. Except everybody looks happy.

Edward is grateful to be here with Tom. If Tom wasn’t here, he’d be in a corner with Pony, pretending to be occupied with his phone. And he’d still feel good. Soaking up the laughter and all. But it’s so much better that he doesn’t have to do it alone.

“My boyfriend did a good job,” he says, putting an arm around Tom’s waist. He melts into his embrace.

“ _My_ boyfriend,” he purrs, “did a _superb_ job.”

Edward hooks a thumb into his braces. They’re not elastic, but they have a little give to pull at them. “Mr. Jopson,” he whispers into his neck, “are you being cheeky?”

Tom’s breath catches, but he’s quick to recover. He pulls at Edward’s watch chain in retribution. “I was merely observing the admirable qualities of my gentleman companion,” he says, voice low. “Am I to blame, when he possesses such an upstanding character?”

“Lucky fellow, to be courting you,” Edward grumbles, leaning in for a kiss. He presses his lips to the corner of Tom’s mouth. He could spend a century mapping him, until he discovered every part of his body. He kisses the beauty mark on his cheek. His Polaris. Tom looks at him: his eyes are an unnamed ocean.

“I’ll let you know,” he says, “that you’re setting up quite a precedent; if our first date is lavish like this, I’ll expect luxury every time we meet.”

“Good,” Edward grunts, pulling Tom closer by his braces. “I intend to spoil you rotten.”

*

True to his promise, Edward feeds him prawns and butter-soft fish, ripe fruit and rich cheese, anything Tom desires. Everything around them is sparkling white, with the shock of verdant evergreens, the silver of the candles and outside, the snow dancing in the dusk.

He’s not sure how to do the boyfriend thing. Doesn’t have a promising success-ratio. He just wants to take care of Tom. Make him happy. Maybe that’s enough, for now.

Tom will tell him what he needs. He just has to listen.

“Could you pass me the sparkling water, please?” Tom says.

Edward feels like he was put on this Earth with the sole purpose to get Tom sparkling water. He fills his glass while looking him in the eyes.

He can still feel John and Georgie staring, who are seated with them along with Georgie’s wife.

“So,” John says after clearing his throat, “when were you going to—”

He’s interrupted by a knife clinking against glass.

“To the surprise of nobody, I wish to speak,” James announces, rising from his table; his voice carries over the room. (Good acoustics, much better than in that damned assembly room.) “Keep eating, damn you, it’s a family recipe!” After the chuckles die down, he touches his glass to his chin, looking lost in thought. “It’s a story none of you have heard before. A story about...how I met my husband.”

Edward joins in the cheering, even though he knows this story better than his own name. James puts his hand on Francis’ shoulder, who visibly braces himself.

“You know,” James begins, “I played the fiddle in an English band, but I fell in love with an Irish man. Kissed him on the neck, took him by his hand, said ‘baby, I just wanna dance with my pretty Ulster man.’” He looks at Francis seriously. “You’re my pretty Ulster man.”

“I want a divorce,” Francis says.

There’s laughter and clapping, and Edward makes sure to clap loud enough that John can’t ask _questions_.

James pulls Francis to his feet, who looks around wearily, but with that same forgiving and loving gaze Edward’s dad has.

He sits a minute contemplating whether he thinks of Francis as a father figure.

Does that make Tom and him related?

It’d be awkward as hell.

“I just wanted a moment to say my public thanks to the men who made this night possible,” he says, gaze finding Edward and Tom’s table. Edward stops playing footsie for a moment and takes his hand back from Tom’s thigh. “Edward Little,” Francis goes on. “I know you hate to be put in the spotlight. I won’t do that to you. I’m just letting everybody know that we have the best damn director with us in the room, and you should ask him if he’s considering freelancing. Wait for his reply, it’ll be worth it.” He winks at Edward, who’s, well, yes, he’s trying to turn invisible, but also.

That’s not a shit idea.

Freelancing might be...nice.

“Tom Jopson,” Francis says warmly. “From best student to best sound editor, I couldn’t be happier to work with you. Or maybe I could,” he adds, even though Tom is already flushing and tickled pink. “You see, I think the listeners are getting fed up with my grumbling. It’d be nice to hear a younger voice too, every now and again. And because I don’t want anybody to dispute the expertise of my co-host—and because you bloody well deserve it—I’m offering you tuition to finally get your masters and show those fuckers how it’s done.”

Tom gapes at Francis, then looks at James, as if he had a hand in it. Judging by the way he smirks, maybe he did. Tom looks at Edward next as the crowd cheers for him, and Edward can’t stop smiling, and he doesn’t think he’s smiled this much his entire life, but this is _Tom_ , Tom who’s whispering “pinch me” but Edward chooses to clasp his shoulder instead, shake his hand.

“Good work,” he says.

Tom makes a strangled noise and Edward kisses him soundly, in front of the entire room including John, who didn’t know that Edward was gay, but we learn something about our college friends every day.

*

“It’s about women’s prisons in Australia,” Sophia explains. “Mostly interviews I record on location or via phone. My schedule is a bit hectic, so I’m looking for a director who can work with that.”

“My schedule is hectic too,” Edward says. He doesn’t think anybody has been glad to hear or discover it, but Sophia smiles at him.

“Great! Then you know what it’s like.”

“Yeah, an expert on messy schedules, that’s me.”

“Lemme give you my contact.”

Edward hands over his phone, peers around the assembly room. The chairs have been moved to the side, and soft blue lights illuminate the room. Edward can smell dancing from a mile away. He’s not sure he likes it. He liked dancing with Tom last time. Liked what happened after.

“He’s sweet,” Sophia says. Edward blinks. Remembers that Tom is on his homescreen. The photo is from Carnivale, with the cat ears. He looks pleasantly fucked out in it. They both do.

“He’s the best,” Edward says warmly. Sophia pulls up the contacts, types in her number. Edward is grateful she doesn’t insist on socials.

“I always liked him,” Sophia chats as she hands the phone back. It feels weird that people knew Tom before he did. Do they know how lucky they are? He’s currently gossiping with Blanky and Bessie. Edward hopes they appreciate every single word he says. To hear his voice. Be in his presence.

(Perhaps the entire world is not in love with Tom Jopson, but that’s only because they have terrible taste.)

The lights drop, like Edward knew they would, because he can sense this sort of thing, when something _public_ is about to take place. Music starts playing, low and mysterious, just the thrumming of a violin. A soft glow is cast onto a suspiciously vacant spot in the middle of the room.

James steps into the light—he’s changed outfits, now donning a uniform matching Francis’, who follows him valiantly. He squints in the light while James smiles, waves a white-gloved hand.

“Evening,” James says joyfully. “I suppose you expect us to dance the waltz now.”

There are cheers from the crowd, and some general shuffling as they give them space. Edward retreats into the shadows, urging Pony along, until he bumps into somebody. He mutters his apologies; there’s a breathless chuckle he recognises. Tom gets hold of his elbows, presses his chest against Edward’s back.

“ _Careful_ , _mister_ ,” he whispers.

A pleasant chill runs down Edward’s spine.

“We’ll ask you,” Francis says after the noise dies down, “to manage your expectations. For Christ’s sake, they didn’t dance the _waltz_ at early Victorian weddings.”

“Whoa, he’s agreed to do a bit with James,” Edward whispers.

“True love,” Tom whispers back, wraps his arms around him.

“The Vienna waltz was introduced in England in 1812,” James says in a tone that indicates he was personally present and likely responsible. He walks around, circling with Francis, as if they were about to give a lecture or start a duel. The violin trembles and Tom’s grip is solid. “Even our friend Lord Byron was shocked when he first witnessed it: ‘it’s like two cockchafers are spitted on the same bodkin,’ he observed. The figures dance scandalously close. The London Times went as far as to state that waltz was ‘confined to prostitutes and adulteresses.’ Yikes.”

“Of course, Francophobia has something to do with the bad reputation,” Francis chimes in. “They blamed French dancing-masters for popularising the thing.”

“The waltz wouldn’t do, but Francis here was unwilling to learn the polka,” James complains. Francis frowns at the mere mention of the dance, making Tom chuckle in Edward’s ear.

“Don’t blame it on me,” Francis says. “You wanted something we could dance scruffy cheek to scruffy cheek.”

“For that, we need to leave the ballroom.” James halts. Francis mirrors him, catching his gaze.

“We’re in a port,” he says.

“In Argentina.”

“Mid-nineteenth century, probably. It’s debated.”

“In any case, the sailors are restless.”

“A new dance is invented.”

James reaches for Francis. They step closer, Francis placing a hand on James’ back. They draw a semi-circle with their leg as the music picks up, bass and accordion joining the violin. Georgie gasps audibly, recognising the genre before anybody else does, including Edward, who’s gazing ahead cluelessly, basking in the heat of Tom’s body.

“Perhaps you’ve heard about it,” James says.

Francis and him step out sharply, Francis dragging his feet. “It’s the bloody tango,” he says.

James smiles sharply. “The only dance fitting a nineteenth-century queer wedding.”

Then they have a go at it.

Edward thought they’d save that bit when they step between each other’s legs for later, but they’re doing that and then James is bending back before he could blink. James kneels, one leg extended, and Francis drags him along the floor, then pulls him up sharply, a hand along his neck, almost a chokehold.

Francis is not a bad dancer, from what Edward can tell, with his admittedly limited tango know-how. He’s not looking at his legs, for a start. He’s only looking at James.

“I can’t believe he let James talk him into this,” Edward whispers.

Tom hums, contemplating. “I’m wondering if he offered on his—oh wow, that was fast.”

“Can’t take any more surprises today.”

“Are you sure?”

Francis pulls back James from a tilt by his hair.

“Whoa,” Edward mouths.

“He’s _allowed_?”

“The curls survived. How.”

“Seriously! What the heck does Mx. Fitzjames do with his hair, look at it, where’s the frizz—”

“I think you can call him by his first name, you organised his wedding.”

“We did,” Tom corrects automatically, hugging Edward tighter. “I don’t know, if I called him James I’d have to call Mr. Crozier Francis, and that’d be odd.”

“Try dropping the _sir_ first and see how it feels?”

“Listen, I used to sleep on his couch when he was going through withdrawal, spoonfed him, mopped up his sick, whatever, but we never even exchanged a handshake, it’s that sort of relationship.”

“Because you’re both weirdos,” Edward says with all the love of his heart.

“Yeah, I take after work-dad.” 

“Do you think James will adopt you, too?”

“I think he already did? I get birthday gifts.”

“You do?”

“No kidding, he takes me shopping, half my wardrobe—” He’s interrupted by a wave of ovation as the dance ends. They join in, clapping away, and Edward feels oddly elated, like, well. Like he belongs here. Like he’s just one of the people clapping, and no one has singled him out for being awkward or doing something wrong, having the wrong kind of reaction.

Francis is out of breath but he stands proud, even does a mocking little bow. “I hear we’re out of music,” he announces, “so—”

Tom tenses in the telltale way of a student about to raise his hand. “Ned?” he whispers, pleading gently, and Edward knows exactly what he’s asking, and it doesn’t suck to do it. It doesn’t feel bad to wave at Francis, have the entire room look at him.

“I can take care of it,” he says. “Won’t be historically accurate.”

“Fuck accuracy,” Francis says. 

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said that.” James beams, collapsing on top of him. On second look, it’s what a hug looks like with their height difference.

Edward heads to the sound system, Pony following and Tom always near, and as long as that’s the case, he can do anything.

Not like logging into Spotify is hard.

He hits play on playlist 21/12/1966. Decades ago, the same songs played on British pirate radios. It’ll do.

“Thank you, darling,” Tom says. Edward steps away from the laptop, resists the urge to start messing with the settings, and offers his hand to Tom.

“Will you do me the honour of shuffling around while music plays, because I can’t dance for shit?”

“Always.”

*

They’re dancing on the edge of the dancefloor. Edward wishes he could do the charleston or swing, because Tom would look amazing performing complicated dance numbers, but he doesn’t mind that Edward has two left feet and severe anxiety. Maybe he’ll learn something for their own wedding. Or start sooner. Start where it begins. Let Tom take him to dance classes for a date, or twirl around at home in their underwear, laughing at every misstep.

Tom’s cheek is pressed against Edward’s face, and he’s sort of relieved that Tom’s cheekbones are not as sharp as they look. His stubble tickles and his nose is cold. Edward files away every detail. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“My boyfriend,” Tom says. The slow song ends and an upbeat track begins, so Tom steps back, changing the rhythm of their shuffle. He’s holding Edward’s hands, guiding him into steps that Edward vaguely recognises as the mashed potato.

“Happy thoughts?” Edward probes.

Tom smiles at him mysteriously. “I was thinking that you look so good it’ll be difficult to undress you.”

Edward blinks. He’s kinda forgotten what he was wearing, which is good, actually, because he was worried a costume like this would be terribly uncomfortable, but he got it tailored and—

“I could leave it on,” he says a moment too late.

Tom purses his lips. He guides himself into a spin, lands elegantly. “But you see,” he says as he draws nearer, “I _want_ you naked.”

Edward flushes. “I, uh. I’d like that. Being naked with you.”

“Just two naked dudes, chilling in a hotel room.”

“Balls deep because they’re very, very gay.”

Tom snorts, then tries to regain his composure as if he is above dirty jokes and old memes. Edward knows better. He looks Tom over, lets his gaze linger. Imagines everything he wants to do with him, lets it show on his face, then makes Tom turn away with a spin. Presses close to him, so Tom’s arse rubs over his groin. “I’ve been watching you all day, Mr. Jopson,” he whispers into his ear while the lights pulse overhead. “You have the most delectable little arse.”

“Sir,” Tom gasps. Edward grips his hips, holding him firmly. The movement of the crowd covers them. Nobody notices as Edward rubs against him again, dragging his cock over the swell of his arse.

“Tell me to stop,” Edward rasps. Tom arches into his touch. His body is lean but strong, and the scent of his hair goes immediately to Edward’s cock, so familiar now, a scent that means _Tom_ , and Tom means _love_ , Tom means _want_.

“Please don’t ever stop, Lieutenant.”

“I’m a lieutenant now?”

“You’re a navy man.” Tom pushes himself away from him, returns to his arms with a spin. “Left me on the Hispaniola to go to Argentina.”

“Left you heartbroken,” Edward joins the tale.

“I was utterly desolate.”

“How could I ever comfort my Lieutenant Jopson?”

“ _I’m_ a lieutenant?”

“Gotta be, with your brains.”

“I’m afraid they’d never accept my lowly birth; or that I have a gentleman lover.”

“I don’t care for my reputation,” Edward says fervently, grabbing his hand. “I’d lose all just to keep you; marry me, Thomas!”

“Why? You’re already mine.” He pushes at him playfully; Edward uses the momentum to fall to his knees dramatically, in time with the music.

He’s never been historical-roleplay-horny for anybody, and it’s a very, very promising beginning. Tom stands above him, breathless, adjusting his cap and smiling, and Edward is on his knees for him. He believes their tale. That in every version of reality, he’d want him.

*

He sort of expected Tom and himself to just fall through the hotel room’s door at the end of the day in a passionate embrace, kissing and shedding their clothes as they stumble toward the bed, half-blind with desire.

It doesn’t happen.

What happens is that they stay at the venue until the moon rises to wrap things up. They make sure that the guests who leave have their rides, and that the guests who stay are still satisfied with their rooms. By the time they get to their own, they’re both disheveled and knackered, and even poor Pony is yawning. It takes Tom three tries to get the door open with the card.

“What a day,” he says, toeing off his shoes. He gets two pairs of slippers from his luggage, giving one to Edward.

“Oh,” he says, oddly touched.

“Proposition,” Tom says. “Fuck, shower, sleep, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Leave the covers on the bed and get some towels, please?”

Edward obeys. Hangs his tophat on the way. It feels nice to just settle into this oddly domestic rhythm in a place that should feel foreign. Maybe it’s the pleasant memories, maybe it’s the company, but he feels at ease here. (He makes sure to close the curtains just in case.)

Tom is kneeling by his suitcase, unpacking his stuff carefully as Edward makes the bed as instructed, fills Pony’s bowl with water (she’s already curled up and half asleep), dims the lights a bit.

“Which one?” Tom calls while Edward activates the electric fireplace. He glances up, eyes going round as he realises that Tom is holding up three prosthetic cocks to choose from.

“Medium?” he says. “Small.”

“Wise choice. Think fast.” Tom tosses a bottle of lube at him. Edward manages to catch it and set it on the nightstand.

“I’ve got condoms,” he says.

“Mm, we love a gentleman who’s prepared.”

“Ribbed, thin?” 

“No preference.” Tom stands up, stretches, cock and harness in hand. He watches Edward get a box of Magnums from his duffel bag, and whistles. “Oh, lovely! We love a well-dressed cock too.” He stifles a yawn and heads to the bathroom. Edward follows, because he has no idea what to do and also because he thinks Tom is getting undressed, and he’d like to watch that. The bathroom is a lot of shiny white and silver, which is blinding for a moment, but he’s really grateful for all the mirrors, because he gets a good view of Tom shrugging off his jacket, the muscles shifting under his shirt. He hands Edward the garment, takes off his braces. He lets them hang around his hips as he pulls off his shirt.

Edward’s mouth waters.

He thought he was too tired to get things going, but well, holy shit. Tom’s back deserves a sculpture. He adjusts his dick while Tom reaches for the buttons of his own trousers; he catches Edward in the act, and smiles at him in the mirror.

“Keep looking,” he asks as he opens his fly.

Edward couldn’t be bribed to look anywhere else. The trousers come off, then the briefs too. Tom’s legs are perfect. His little arse excellent. The hair at the front black and soft. He gestures, and Edward hands him the harness and the prosthetic cock.

“I love the jockstrap design,” Tom chats. “Makes it look like I have a bum.”

“I was just thinking,” Edward says, mouth dry, “that you have an excellent arse.”

Tom’s reflection beams at him, then he turns to face him, his cock bobbing. It’s so pretty, curved and chubby. He steps close to Edward, taking the jacket from his hand.

“Your turn,” he says. 

Edward’s hands fly to unbutton his waistcoat, but he doesn’t feel like he’s doing anything. He’s too busy staring at Tom, his lovely Tom with his soft eyes and five o’clock shadow, the hair on his chest, his navel, and Jesus Christ, that smell, like sunshine on linen, yes, but now headier, with that warm scent of heated skin.

“Let me,” Tom says, helps his stumbling fingers with deft hands, stripping him layer after layer until his chest is revealed. His mouth is on Edward then, licking at a piercing while he’s still trapped in those tight old timey trousers, his cock straining against the funny flap front.

“Tom,” he gasps, putting his back against the wall because his feet are threatening to collapse.

“Mm?” Tom asks, teasing his nipple with the tip of his tongue. Edward moans, which earns him a caress, Tom fondling his balls as if that’s supposed to placate Edward, not hit him with an even more intense wave of arousal. He’s getting slightly cross-eyed.

“Fuck.”

Tom caresses his cock through his trousers, teases a button with his knuckles. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he says. He kisses Edward, close-mouthed, which is at odds with how confidently he’s stroking his cock.

“Bed?” Edward asks. Nearly begs. 

Tom smiles against his lips, walks them backwards. This is a dance too: Edward follows his lead until the back of his knees hit the bedframe. He falls down bodily, the mattress creaking, then Tom is upon him on his hands and knees, claiming Edward’s lips in a deep kiss. Edward can feel his own dick smearing precome all over his briefs. He moans into Tom’s mouth, who swallows the sound, strokes him firmer until he’s done with teasing. He gets out Edward’s cock, who whimpers and moans at being exposed, thrashes under Tom.

“Prep me,” Tom pants, eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“Be prepared, you’ll feel a bit of a stretch,” Edward says seriously.

Tom pulls on his cock. “Oh, you’re being silly. You’re such a silly Teddy.”

Edward is pretty sure he’s drooling. He reaches for the lube; he can’t get to it fast enough, but he’s refusing to look away from Tom, who’s still toying with his dick, jerking it with unfair grace. He manages to get hold of the bottle, then nearly drops it when Tom twists his fist around his dick, then does it again and again until Edward is a panting mess.

He needs help to get his fingers wet.

(Thank God he’s good at fingering men.)

Tom has the tightest little arse in existence. Edward’s exploring finger hardly makes it past the rim.

“You sure you can take me?”

“I trained hard,” Tom brags while he lubes up his own fingers. “Watch and learn.”

Edward’s pointer slips in until the second knuckle without pushing.

“Impressive muscle control,” Edward says, which has to be the least sexy compliment ever given, but Tom flushes. Edward licks his lips, tries to do better. “What a good kitten.”

It has the desired effect: Tom purrs playfully and rubs his face over Edward’s, not minding the muttonchops at all. He licks at Edward’s face and relaxes for him, so he can insert his finger fully.

Tom taps against Edward’s rim, searching his eyes.

“Yeah,” Edward says. “Give it to me.”

“My pleasure,” Tom says, slips in. They move their hands in tandem, gazes linked. Edward has never felt this close to anybody, although with Tom on his hands and knees there’s a lot of space between them, space he’s eager to close, and soon. How could he ever be close enough though, when he wants them to be one? He arches his finger and feels Tom shudder, clenches in answer. “Oh my,” Tom pants. “Remember when I first came over?”

“Vividly.”

“We were addressing the envelopes and listening to music and I wanted you to fuck me.” Tom kisses his face, adds another thick finger. “I didn’t know what to do short of throwing my legs open, I felt so shameless spread out on your couch like that, and it was like you never noticed—”

“I was trying to hold myself back,” Edward pants. “Not to make advances, I didn’t want to—scare you off, I was—fuck—so far gone, I had to get off, I was wanking myself raw—”

“Were you?” Tom asks, picks up the rhythm, twisting his fingers. “Like this?”

“Holy shit!”

“Fucking yourself hard and dirty for me.”

“What were _you_ doing?” Edward asks breathlessly just when Tom hits his prostate. He blacks out for a second. Two fingers up his arse, and somehow he wasn’t expecting it.

“I was doing this,” Tom tells him. “Getting my bum ready for your cock, should you ever want me. I thought that if I was lucky you’ll fuck me in the studio one day, be done with me—”

“No,” Edward objects vehemently, pushes into him deeper, fucking him with his fingers like he deserves to be fucked, to show him that not even _this_ is enough, that he’ll always want more.

“So lonely in my little bed,” Tom says, smiling, and Edward knows he’s teasing, but he can’t bear the thought of Tom alone.

“I’ll fuck you in your closet bed,” he promises, inserts a third finger, damn it all to hell, he wants to give Tom everything, whatever he wishes, fist or dick.

“Murphy bed,” Tom corrects, pedantic as ever.

“Fuck you in it until it breaks,” Edward growls, claims his lips. Bites him.

“Nooo, where will I sleep?”

“At my place, I’ll take you home and fuck you some more.”

“In your playboy mansion,” Tom sighs dreamily, then nips back, biting Edward’s nose, who frowns at him, confused.

“It’s not a playboy mansion.”

“Your flat looks like a gay porn set,” Tom says. “Not Pornhub, like. A men-dot-com exclusive?”

“Wouldn’t know, I watch indie porn.”

“Oooh. You watch _indie porn._ ”

“Forget I said anything,” Edward grumbles, knowing full well he’ll never hear the end of it.

“Getting that gourmet cock?” Tom presses on.

“ _Please_.”

“Do you wanna go first, Monsieur Conossieur, or would you like my pedestrian penis?”

Edward throws an arm over his eyes to hide, and whines. He can feel his cheeks burning up. He can feel—heat, so much heat, all over his body, especially his dick. Tom is grabbing it again, rolling on a condom, fingers slick, and positioning it to—

Edward peers out from under his arm just in time to see Tom starting to sink down his dick.

His breath catches.

Tom looks magnificent. So collected and poised even as he’s—fuck—preparing to ride a guy, ride Edward, because for some reason he’s that lucky, so lucky that Tom fancies him. Tom is taking his dick inch by inch and all Edward can do is stare, awed, how wide it spreads his arse, then his gaze is back on Tom’s face, who grins at him.

Drops down onto his cock.

They both cry out.

It’s. Fuck. It’s a lot.

“Are you all right?” Edward asks, gripping his thighs. Tom is straddling him triumphantly, but his eyes have gone very round. He looks a bit manic.

“I’m so, so okay,” he says. Doesn’t move. Not yet. He sways a bit as if to test the stretch, then bites his lips. “Do you feel that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re very deep.”

“You tell me,” Edward grits. He doesn’t move either. He’ll come if he does that, and he promised to last. It’s just. Jesus Christ. It’s Tom’s perfect little arse, hot and wet and tight, and the look on his face, surprised and happy, like he’s just discovered something amazing. Tom pushes forward, and Edward can feel his dick shift inside, and it’s—so much more intimate than the usual thrusting, although he’s eager to get to that, but not yet; Tom’s patience must be rubbing off him, because he just wants to take a moment to appreciate it, their bodies united in this singular way.

Then Tom starts moving.

It’s slow, almost serene, like he’s in a dream, but it just means that Edward can feel every pulse of him, and it’s maddening. Edward makes a sound low in his throat, a noise he didn’t even know he was capable of, a growl or a fucking mating call, he doesn’t know, but it makes Tom sway forward as if pulled. He braces his hands on Edward’s chest, catches his gaze then claws at him as he pushes his hips back. His fingers catch on the piercings. Edward moans, jabs his cock deeper in a sharp little motion, and when it makes Tom squeeze his chest, he does it again and again.

“I’ve never been motorboated,” he tells Tom, who doesn’t seem to register what he’s saying, mouth open and hair falling into disarray as he’s bouncing on his dick.

He’s so fucking pretty.

“You’re a jet ski,” he tells Edward at length, pulling at the piercings again. It feels incredible, like he knows exactly how Edward likes to be teased. He could be terrible at it and Edward would still be falling to pieces, just to look at him, his dark eyelashes fluttering, the rise and fall of his chest and the sway of his hard dick, but of course he’s not terrible, of course Tom Jopson can do anything he sets his mind to, including riding dick like a champion. For a very inappropriate second, Edward is reminded of the carousel ride at Carnivale, Tom in his lap and the glittery horse going up and down—

“I’m a carousel ride,” he realises.

“You’re bloody Disneyland,” Tom says, looking possessed. He moves faster, clenching around Edward’s cock at every forward pull, and Edward has no idea how he can calculate the rhythm when everything is wetness and heat and sweat and spit, but all he can do is sit up, answer every push with a thrust.

Tom collapses against him, his heels digging into his back, gripping his shoulders as he gasps for air. His cock jabs into Edward’s stomach, which is as arousing as impractical, so he pushes Tom to lie down on his back. Tom goes, boneless, arms outstretched.

“I’m going to come,” he says flatly, addressing the ceiling, and that inevitability in his voice does things to Edward, who hammers in harder, jaw set and very determined to rock Tom’s world to its core, to make him see stars and galaxies exploding, have his toes curl and body shaking violently. Tom says, “Never even got to the vibrator.”

Edward’s rhythm halts. “You’ve got a vibrator?” he asks innocently.

“In the pocket thingie.” Tom gestures at the harness. Edward’s interest is...piqued.

“Does it feel good,” he probs, bashful, “when it’s on?”

“Yeah, it’s...will you keep moving, please?”

“Do you wanna come that way, the vibrator and my dick?”

“That was the plan,” Tom pants. Reaches into the harness, and then there’s a delightful rumble. “Got distracted.”

Edward pulls out halfway, dragging every slick inch, then presses back in, looking at Tom’s face to see how he likes it. He looks so good among the soft shadows, the heap of pillows, his skin all but glows and his eyes are the colour—

“Now you’re edging me, Teddy,” Tom tells him.

“Would you prefer not to be edged?” Edward asks. He just. He wants to stay inside. For as long as possible, but then again, he wants Tom to come on his cock, to keep coming, and between the vibrator and his dick, maybe—

“Please let me come,” Tom begs, hoarse, as if Edward had the power to hold him back, as if he _would_. “Please, please, please—” Tom is chanting as Edward arranges his legs, pressing Tom’s knees together and hooking them over his shoulder as he kneels up, so Tom will feel nice and tight and the angle will be just right. He pushes inside and Tom moans, long, getting hold of the headboard. “Oh my God, Jesus—”

“I’ve got you,” Edward says, his thrusts sharp and shallow. Tom moves like a captured merman, fluid, nearly violent, his ankles crossed over each other and his whole body quivering in waves. He’s gasping for air, eyes shut tight, and the vibrator drones on, a low, buzzing sound; Tom reaches for his cock and presses it tight to his body, stroking it firmly, and it’s the single most erotic thing Edward has ever seen, those deft fingers around the thick shaft, pinkie up—

“So good,” Tom gasps, looking at him, eyelashes drooping and his pupils dark. His perfect little mouth is bitten pink, matching the flush of his cheeks. “You’re fucking me so good, darling.”

“Am I?”

“Duh.” He gropes his cock with a wink, clenching around Edward’s dick, who grunts helplessly. Tom’s head lolls to the side with a little smile; Edward cannot stop now—he slams in, hard, and Tom cries out, arching off the pillow.

He laughs.

It’s wild and free and fascinating, just a chuckle, really, choked off as his body starts to shake, but Edward wants to kiss it off his lips. He waits a bit, fucking Tom through his orgasm, close to his own, but that hardly matters. What matters is Tom’s fading laughter, the shine of his teeth as he beams up at Edward. He pulls him closer with his knees as his legs fall open, so Edward goes, careful not to pull out, utterly focused on Tom.

“You really don’t know?” Tom asks.

“...What?”

“How wonderful you are.” Tom kisses him messily. Edward’s heart is racing, his dick so hard it aches, but he’s not keen on coming, so he doesn’t move, because he wants this to go on, wants to be in Tom’s arms, kneeling between his strong thighs, to be kissed and praised and petted. Tom is stroking his hair, his muttonchops (there must be some glitter in them still, because it sticks to Tom’s skin where he rubbed against him, where he’s touching him) and Tom is sheltering his dick, warming it in his body, keeping it snug and safe. “Lemme reciprocate?” 

“In a minute?” Edward asks, and kisses him, his lips, then the dimples, the crow’s feet, Tom’s scent and heat surrounding him. “You look so pretty on my cock,” he grumbles, making Tom chuckle again. (He’s so sweet.)

“Better, ah, keep me there forever,” Tom says.

“What reason do we have to ever leave this bed?”

“Exactly, hah. The wedding is over.”

“And ours is yet to begin,” Edward adds, only half-joking.

“Will it, ah, will it be like this?” Tom squirms a bit. “Our married life, I mean, us dating, will you want me this much?”

“How could I not?” Edward asks passionately, laying a palm on Tom’s cock; how could he ever tire of—wait. There’s rumbling. He blinks at Tom. “It’s still on?”

“Oh _yes_ it is,” Tom pants, squirms again. Edward’s cock pulses, and if going soft inside Tom was tempting a moment ago, now all he wants to do is come, because _fuck_. Nothing else will take the edge off. Nothing else will do. He pulls out, careful, but his breath hitches at the searing slide of his own dick, how Tom’s arse clenches around him instinctively.

Edward rises to his knees, trying to position himself above Tom’s gorgeous, erect cock. He bites his lips in concentration, then peers at Tom. “I’m not very good at it,” he admits. “Riding dick.”

“Oh, we better have some standards there,” Tom says. “What are you good at?”

“When I’m bottoming? Being a pillow prince.”

“Are you a very good pillow prince?”

“I’m pillow royalty,” Edward says, blushing. He’s never been made to feel proud of it, but there’s something in Tom’s gaze which tells him he finds the idea incredibly sexy. He gets up to maneuver Edward to his back, who’s fully hard again, and he can’t ignore it, can’t ignore how much he aches with it, without Tom’s heat to distract him. There’s a sharp and beautiful pain pulling at him, his balls heavy and cock straining, and he knows he won’t last like this. He reaches for his dick, just to give himself a placating caress, but Tom gets hold of his wrists, pins them above his head.

“I’ll ask Your Majesty to just lie back,” he says. “Let your devoted servant take care of you, yes?”

“I see I’m rising through the ranks steadily,” Edward says. It’s hard to be witty when Tom is piling a pillow under his hips, arranges his legs so they’re pushed up to his chest—Edward has never felt quite so open and vulnerable, but he likes it. It makes him feel small. Cherished.

Tom kneels to lube up his cock. Edward wants him inside so much it’s ridiculous. He nearly forgot he was allowed to have this, to be filled with Tom, to be so close. He’s lying still, keeping his hands where Tom put them, above his head, good and patient so he will be rewarded. Tom smiles at him, eyes hazy, his breathing heavy, leans over him and presses his cock inside.

Edward is glad he chose the small dick.

It doesn’t feel small. Not at all. He’s sealed up by it completely as Tom pushes deeper. Edward whimpers, his body seizing up with pleasure.

“Hush now, sir,” Tom whispers. “We may be overheard.” He lies atop Edward, chest to chest, heart to heart, solid, heavy and warm. He braces himself on his elbows, grinding in slowly. Edward can’t help a moan, torn from deep in his throat. Tom frowns at him adorably.

“Let them hear me,” Edward rasps. “I don’t care, it’s my—kingdom of pillows—”

“Do you want your subjects to know you’re letting a servant fuck you?” Tom jabs in sharply. “The scandal will ruin us both.”

“Not you; I’ll make sure of it, help you escape—oh Thomas, please, please—”

“What is your wish, sir? State it clearly.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Edward chants, trying not to thrash, trying to keep still even as Tom’s cock fills him, even as he starts moving, his hips rolling deliciously. Edward bites his lip again but he can’t keep the noise down, he’s moaning for Tom’s dick shamelessly, begging him.

Tom nuzzles against his face, whispers, “Too much?”

“Not enough.”

“We could be the lieutenant and his steward.” He rocks into him lazily, and it’s the rhythm of the sea. “We could be you and me, married. I could be your catboy and you could be my puppy.”

“Just don’t stop playing with me,” Edward asks. Tom is so impossibly close, buried deep and pressing against him, his hair falling into Edward’s face. His hair was the first thing Edward noticed, glossy-black and soft looking, and it _is_ soft, but Tom is firm everywhere else, his arms, his stomach, his dick.

“I don’t think I’ll stop,” Tom says; his breath tickles. “It’s too much fun playing with you. I heard there was a technical director and a sound editor, once upon a time…”

“And they lived happily ever after,” Edward says, and he believes that. He believes in it with his whole heart. He lost his faith in love, but Tom showed him religion. They’ll just do their best as long as they can. If three months is their ever after, let it be the best three months he could possibly give to Tom.

Let it be good.

He kisses Tom. He refuses to waste any opportunity for it. He’s waited too long already. He spreads his legs for him, welcomes him, offers everything. Tom takes him. Claims him with every twitch of his hips, every kiss. Edward’s hand travels down the expanse of his back, feeling the tremble of his muscles, the slickness of his sweat, then caresses him lower, cupping his arse, pushing a finger inside. Tom gasps against his lips.

“That’s not a pillow prince,” he admonishes gently. “That’s a...pillow pirate.”

“Arr,” Edward says, and scissors his fingers. Tom scoffs, responds with a clever twist of his hips; he’s fuckign Edward so precisely, so thoroughly—it’s irresistible because it’s so _him_ , the impeccable rhythm, the total control, all Tom, and Edward knows he’ll never stop being in awe of Tom Jopson.

When he comes, he comes for him. He comes so Tom will praise him, tell him he did well, and that’s a very new experience, because his orgasms tend to be private events, per se, between his dick and him, but now he spills looking into Tom’s eyes to see if he shares his pleasure, if it makes him happy, if Edward can do it—

“There you are,” Tom says, so tender Edward could weep. Tom kisses his forehead, moving within tirelessly, giving Edward the gift of his body, his time, his company.

“If I were a pillow pirate?” Edward pants.

“Yeah?”

“You’d be my treasure.”

Tom laughs at that. Edward’s softening cock twitches against his stomach, and he reaches to keep the condom in place, because now it’s a Pavlovian reflex, hearing Tom laugh and wanting to make him come. Tom keeps fucking him, chasing his own orgasm, every drag of his dick sending a new shockwave of arousal through Edward’s wrecked body, who’s determined that he won’t tap out just because he came already.

“You know,” Edward says, catching his breath, “the thing about treasure—now that I found you, I’m not giving you up.”

*

The final ratio is five to two. Edward is quite proud of Tom. They sit in the tub, the water purple with a bathbomb Tom didn’t neglect to pack, limbs tangled, sore and exhausted. There are some beautiful bruises blossoming on Tom’s pale skin, and Edward will wear the bite marks around his nipples like medals of gold. He follows the track of his own nails down Tom’s arms while resting his eyes on Tom’s cock, which is drying in the sink, rubbed clean.

“Don’t know about you,” Edward grumbles, “but sitting is...an adventure.”

“No kidding,” Tom says, squirming in his lap. Hisses.

“You fucked me within an inch of my life. Fucked me straight into the afterlife.”

“Wouldn’t mind a Heaven like this.” Tom squirms some more, then cranes his neck to look at Edward. “Should I kiss your arse better?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Edward grunts, pulling him closer with an arm around his chest. Tom snickers, the naughty thing. “Next time?”

“Sounds good.”

“How does your schedule look?”

“Gosh. Well, I could swing by if you’re kind enough to drive me back to London, but we have a bit of a pre-holiday rush at work, eight out of ten contractors, and then there’s Christmas, and I’m going over to Da, then to Ma on Boxing Day...is it too early to introduce you to my parents, you think?”

“Depends.” Edward sinks his hand underwater, tracing the line of hair on Tom’s stomach. “If you need me there, I’ll be there.”

“I might take you up on that offer, because my brother could certainly use the emotional support, and then if I focus on that I forget to focus on myself and collapse and...so last time I cried in Ma’s loo and I’d like not to make that a tradition.” Tom adjusts his fringe. “She’d be happy to see you. She’s always happy for me.”

“Done deal.” Edward discovers that he can rest his chin on the top of Tom’s head when he’s slumped in his lap like this, so he takes advantage of it. Closes his eyes, lets the water soothe his limbs. He feels like he’s just run a marathon around the globe. And enjoyed said marathon. Because it was a sex marathon. “Reckon she’ll be real proud of the uni thing.”

“I think so, yeah,” Tom says, just a touch timid, but Edward catches it.

“Will you take Francis’ offer?”

“Ah, I want to! It’s just that—I’m way too busy already, and I want to spend the time I have with you, not studying—”

“You can come over to my place to study any time. I’ll take you on a date in the library. Any museum you wish. Whatever...history requires.” He kisses Tom’s hair. “Besides, you’re a co-host now, so you don’t have to juggle all those side hustles unless you’re really keen on them.”

“Oh,” Tom says. “You think that, uh, you think that a raise is included?”

Edward tells him the usual amount. Tom goes pink.

“Blimey.”

“Francis doesn’t do anything in half measures.”

“He really doesn’t, does he?”

“My master of history.” Edward pulls him into a proper embrace, both arms tight around his waist. “On New Year’s Eve, I want you to meet my sister Jane.”

“Mm, special party?”

“We stay home and comfort the dogs. Her girlfriend makes nachos.”

“I’m in. Burns Night? Epiphany? Lunar New Year?” Tom’s eyes glint with mischief. “I’ve got a proper salary now, I’ll take you out.”

“I’ll treat you back tenfold.” 

“Now that you’re a sought-after director again.”

“Ugh. Yeah. Whatever. If it means I can spoil my boyfriend.” He kisses Tom’s shoulder. He tastes faintly of salt and lavender.

“I’m glad we got fake-engaged,” Tom says, and Edward hums in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by the ridiculously talented [@bastaerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd): “modern au, fake proposal(s?) in order to get free dessert at restaurants or something of that order, starting facetiously but ending up either entirely serious or more serious than expected.” I went with the angle that Joplittle aren’t even dating at the start for maximum! yearning!
> 
> Content warnings:  
> \- **Transphobia** briefly rears up its ugly head two times. To skip the first indicent (Tom is refused service), stop reading at “Wonder what her fucking issue is” and pick up at “Neither of them move to walk.” To skip the second (Tom’s academic career affected by TERFs), stop reading at “Having a history degree.” and pick up at “Now my former hobby is my job.”  
> \- Canon typical **implied alcoholism** in the past (Francis)  
> \- detailed discussion of Sarah Jopson's prescription **drug addiction,** which mainly follows the canonical storyline. To skip this, stop reading at “Are your parents divorced?” and pick up after the asterisk; in the interim, Tom tells his family's history to Edward, and starts crying, feeling helpless and frustrated; Edward hugs and comforts him.  
> \- Edward is dealing with a lot of **anxiety** and shame connected to difficulty processing stress, unemployment and social interactions  
> \- Minor allusions to petplay in part two and three
> 
> Credit where credit is due: the titles of The Terror Podcast episodes were lifted directly from E. Royston Pike’s (ed) “Golden Times: Human Documents of the Victorian Age.”
> 
> A million thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for betaing and cheerleading! 💗
> 
> For every [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/630785135249375232/happily-ever-before-a-joplittle-fall-exchange) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1311680401920995330), Pony is getting a treat 🐶🦴

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by the ridiculously talented [@bastaerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd): “modern au, fake proposal(s?) in order to get free dessert at restaurants or something of that order, starting facetiously but ending up either entirely serious or more serious than expected.” I went with the angle that Joplittle aren’t even dating at the start for maximum! yearning!
> 
> Content warnings:  
> \- **Transphobia** briefly rears up its ugly head two times. To skip the first indicent (Tom is refused service), stop reading at “Wonder what her fucking issue is” and pick up at “Neither of them move to walk.” To skip the second (Tom’s academic career affected by TERFs), stop reading at “Having a history degree.” and pick up at “Now my former hobby is my job.”  
> \- Canon typical **implied alcoholism** in the past (Francis)  
> \- detailed discussion of Sarah Jopson's prescription **drug addiction,** which mainly follows the canonical storyline. To skip this, stop reading at “Are your parents divorced?” and pick up after the asterisk; in the interim, Tom tells his family's history to Edward, and starts crying, feeling helpless and frustrated; Edward hugs and comforts him.  
> \- Edward is dealing with a lot of **anxiety** and shame connected to difficulty processing stress, unemployment and social interactions  
> \- Minor allusions to petplay in part two and three
> 
> Credit where credit is due: the titles of The Terror Podcast episodes were lifted directly from E. Royston Pike’s (ed) “Golden Times: Human Documents of the Victorian Age.”
> 
> A million thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for betaing and cheerleading! 💗
> 
> For every [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/630785135249375232/happily-ever-before-a-joplittle-fall-exchange) / [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1311680401920995330), Pony is getting a treat 🐶🦴


End file.
